


Part I- Turn the Century

by uirukii



Series: Turn the Century [1]
Category: The Monstrumologist Series - Rick Yancey
Genre: Modern AU, Multi, Turn the Century AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-01
Updated: 2016-06-02
Packaged: 2018-04-18 10:45:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 27
Words: 214,112
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4703165
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/uirukii/pseuds/uirukii
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Monstrumologist is a man who works in discovering the parasitic monsters that plague humanity at the turn of the century in 2001, when his loyal assistant and his family are consumed in a fire. Only their son survived and out of a sense of debt for the man's unending loyalty he takes in the eleven year old Will Henry, who had no clue of the nature of the good doctor's work. Thrust into a world that he does not understand, and which is attempting to fit the child in return, Will Henry must learn again what it means to have a family.</p><p>Folio I-III, Complete (Currently undergoing editing and revisions)<br/>(Feb-Nov 2001)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Do You Know Who I Am?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Folio I: Inheritance
> 
> "Sometimes I fear that we are no more than that: the summation of our inheritances when we enter this world. And we shall continue to remain so, adding onto that original burden until our dying day, when we finally dispense that gift onto others."

There is nothing more terrible than when something, once as familiar and comforting as the stars, becomes corrupted. For even the stars had lost their places in the night sky, a scattering of broken teeth skewed across the carpet like shells.

The world toppled and the scent of burning flesh seared itself as scars.

The boy backed away. Stumbled. Rough fabric slid through fingers, but refused to let it go.

_His promise, that was all he wanted. To hear it in his voice—_

Suddenly his mother was there, with eyes trapped in mercury. Her lips moved, and through the knotted billows of smoke, a single plea cut through the cacophony of cries: her husband’s and her son’s.

_Will Henry, you have to run._

A tremulous whisper that wavers and shimmers like spilt oil, pooling slick in buzzing ears.

_Run! Please Will—my little Will!_

Pale, wild eyes. Clawing, red hands.

_You can’t save him if you don’t run!_

He fled, cheeks scraping against the overheated air and the twisting fragment of his father in his hands.

Bare feet splintered through shards of frost and teeth of ice. It gnawed through, feasting on raw flesh and drops of blood, though not as thorough as what chewed his soul.

_How can I save him if I am running away?_

A deafening screech snatched his hearing. He was thrown aside, sprawled and limp, face consumed by the flickering snow. Heat clawed at his back, soft angry scars. It came for his eyes, swelling them with liquid ice.

Smoke chewed past heaving gasps and desperate breaths, serpentine curls with his lungs.

His father. Lifeless and living, trapped within those hollowed eyes.

His mother. Stooped with tears and exhaustion, weighted down with leaden hands.

And the little boy, vomited from that endless pyre that strangled the night in its fury, having only devoured two souls than its promised three.

***

"You cannot be serious."

Behind the small but tidy workman's desk paced a tired officer of the police, his receding hair thrust into agitated tufts of dull brown. His round glasses were askew from where he had haphazardly thrust them upon his nose and his once-crisp button-down was wrinkled and limp, untucked from his trousers. He fiddled with a pen, rolling it between his fingers. Catching himself, he laid the pen back on the desk.

"Are you saying I am incapable of housing a child, Robert?" came the soft reply.

"You know I’m not, but given the...nature of your work and your predilection for solitude, I’m more than surprised that you’ve even offered!"

Frustrated, he plucked the spectacles off his face and polished them with a lens cloth from his uniform pocket. A deep rub-down and they perched back into place. He halted and turned towards the man opposite his desk, serious eyes owlishly large behind the circular lenses.

"Don't do this out of pity for the boy," he stated.

The other man shifted, jerking his thin hand towards the officer dismissively.

"I am not doing it out of pity, Robert," growled the man, offended. "God knows I would be the last person to take in a child, but he is James' son. I will not allow his only child to end up in an unknown home of questionable intent nor to become lost to the foster care system until they spit him out as an adult."

Long fingers thrust deep into a spill of uncombed waves, pushing them back from the man's furrowed brows. "James deserves more than that after all his years of service to me!" he exclaimed.

Robert folded his arms, pinching the ceases in his rolled shirtsleeves. "So you are doing it out of a sense of obligation then. You know that isn't fair to William." He fixed him a glare. "He deserves a home."

The other man shot Robert with a withering look, dark eyes boring into steadfast brown. "Are you implying I cannot provide that? That I am unfit to do so?"

"I know you, Pellinore. We have been friends since childhood. Your work matters a great deal to you and has always trumped all other aspects of your life. My house cat would be a better guardian than you. And not only that. William just turned eleven; a child still, not some adolescent."

The man looked away, jaw tight, fixing his regard upon the soft glow of reflected light in the adjacent window. His own countenance glowered back, details lost to the effusing night.

_The boy._

He hardly knew the child beside the fact that he often helped Mary tend to his house while he was away with James on one of their many expeditions. She would not allow the child near him otherwise, coming to tend to the housekeeping alone when he and James worked long hours in his lab or library. She was very vehement in her dislike of the doctor her husband had bound them to.

 _Little Will_ , James called him fondly whenever he talked about his son to the other members of their crew or called home. It didn’t matter if it they were overseas or in several states over; James had always made sure to call home. Pellinore could not understand the need, since he always gave James ample time when they returned to attend to such things. But even that was more than enough: it always irked Pellinore how much time his family took away from their important research.

But as always, James understood that ultimately work would take first priority over everything else. _One may not labor for the greater good without much sacrifice_ , he'd often say.

And now he was gone.

All that was left of James' legacy, of his home, of his family, was this small child that had escaped into the night while their home burned to the ground.

Pellinore knew that James' immediate family had disowned him and removed all contact, so there was no possibility there. Mary's parents were deceased and she no longer had any family to speak of.

However, those weren't the primary reasons for Dr Pellinore Warthrop's presence in the small police station of New Jerusalem.

Dr Warthrop was not going to repay his loyal friend and assistant's debt by allowing his only child to disappear into a sea of nameless faces, a passel of unwanted persons without a legacy or purpose to their name. The child deserved to continue in James' great work, to have someone with ties to his family, even if that someone was himself.

Pellinore would not leave without that child.

"May I see the boy?"

Robert expelled an irritated breath and unfurled his arms. "You’re serious, aren't you? There's no stopping you once you set your mind to something—that hasn't changed at all."

Pellinore did not reply. He stood firm and faced the officer, hands locked behind his back.

Robert pinched the area between his eyes, the twinges of a headache coming on. "Pellinore, do you understand all that taking in William will entail?"

"I am not an idiot, Robert," snapped Pellinore. "I have provided for countless members of my expeditions. I do not think one small child will prove more difficult than seven to fifteen grown men and women."

"Goddamnit Pellinore! This isn’t some jaunt into the woods with grown adults!" Robert interjected with a cutting swipe over his desk. A few papers fluttered with the force of his agitation. "This is a child, Pellinore! One that if you decide to take him in, you are completely responsible for! Have you thought of more than just housing him? Huh? He isn't some pet you know!"

"I know that! I intend to uphold and oversee his education and as well as all other needs he may require!" Warthrop was becoming infected as well, pacing tightly, heels striking harshly against the floor.

"You didn't even remember the child's name when you came in!” accused Robert, throwing his hands up into the air.

Pellinore whirled upon the desk ready to bite out a retort, but Robert held out a beseeching hand.

"Look, I understand your desire to take in the boy, especially since he has no one to turn to. But even you have to understand: the boy needs someone who can love and care for him as much as you do for your work. It’d be selfish to tear him away from that possibility if you cannot provide it yourself. Do you think you are the only one upset about this turn of events?" Robert pierced him with a hurt and angry look. His shoulders slumped inwards and he ran a hand over his forehead, rubbing his eye beneath the glasses.

"Let's not forget the one who is important here: William. I will not allow this child to wither away in some orphanage, I promise you. I’ll do my utmost to ensure he receives a home that can adequately provide and care for him as their own child. I wouldn’t insult you or James by not doing that at least!"

Warthrop opened his mouth to speak but Robert beat him to it. "Are you willing to take him under your name, Pellinore?"

The man lurched back, surprise writ upon his angular face. "Take him under my name?"

"Under your name—yes, Pellinore! That's what it means to adopt a child. What? Were you planning on keeping him in perpetual limbo?" asked Robert in disbelief, mouth hanging open.

The man fiddled with his cuff-sleeves, picking at a few of the frayed edges.

"I...I do not desire a son," Pellinore finished blandly.

Exasperated with his friend's obtuseness, the police man reigned in the urge to throttle the man in front of him. He might be shorter by good few inches, but he didn't even think that would have hindered him in the slightest.

"That’s what I am getting at," he ground out. "The child needs legal protection from a custodial guardian that is willing to take him in as _their_ child. You aren’t able or willing to do that. So I’m going to find someone worthy of doing so. What you’re thinking in that head of yours is no more different than letting him wallow in foster care until he's eighteen. The only difference is that it's your place versus someone else's. However, I do agree that might be best if you did take him in until one is found."

Robert sighed and rubbed the back of his neck, worrying a bit of his upper lip hidden beneath his bushy moustache. "You’re the closest thing he has to a connection with his family, and you’re the only one that knew the Henrys more than anyone else. I do think it's best if he can at least have that bit of comfort while we search for an appropriate and permanent residence for him."

Pellinore had once again regained his taciturn composure, but his hands remained at his sides, curling open and closed with a steady rhythm.

He nodded.

"May I see the child now? It's extremely late and he must be exhausted."

Robert looked up at his long-time friend, a man he knew, yet did not. In all their years of seeing each other in desultory bouts, he still couldn’t understand the inner workings of his friend’s mind.

After a beat or two of scrutiny, he reached over and dragged the phone close. Cradling the corded phone to his ear, he pressed the call button.

It emitted a long beep before clicking.

"Hello? Robert?"

"Yes, Marlene? Can you bring in William? I've found someone who can take him in."

 

***

 

William James Henry was a small child for his age, but made infinitely more so next to the tall figure of the doctor. He towered over the detached child, who did not look up at the figure, but rather at his booted feet.

The boy was unremarkable, with only the tiniest spray of freckles dashed upon his cheeks. His hair as brown and tufted as a sparrow’s and it was damp, having been treated to the shower facilities in the station-house. He was dressed in some spare clothes that were too big for him, hanging off his slight frame like a child's doll. In addition, he was wrapped tightly in a garish orange shock blanket.

Robert stood off to the child's side, hand upon his shoulder. "Will? This is the man who has come to take you in for the time being."

Will said nothing and he did not move.

"Do you know who I am?"

Soft brown eyes glazed over towards the man in front of him. Then fell again.

"Yes, sir. You are the monstrumologist," came the reply, as fragile as a caress.

"Will you be alright in staying with him, Will?" continued Robert gently.

The doctor scowled at that, as if the child's opinion had any bearing on the final outcome. Robert glowered back, lips drawn tight.

Small hands peeked out from the blanket swaddled around him. One held a battered hunting cap. But he did not respond otherwise.

Warthrop released a breath through his nose.

"Come," he called, beckoning the child with a snap of his wrist.

Something about that command bade the child to follow. He hesitated slightly, socked feet scuffing the hardwood floor. A step, two and the child stood in front of the doctor.

The doctor fell to his knees, still taller than the child before him, and began inspecting his injuries. Will said nothing, allowing the doctor to run his fingers over his bandages that crisscrossed over his back and torso. He poked and prodded his limbs, lingering on his slight bruises and burns and the various plasters covering the worse of them. The doctor muttered to himself, finding what he observed acceptable.

"Sit down."

Will did so and the doctor immediately pulled off his socks, checking the bandages wrapped around his feet. Grunting in satisfaction, the doctor handed Will back his socks and told him to stand back up. He said it distractedly, instantly jerking his gaze from the child to the officer. His deep-set eyes blazed with resolve.

The child, tired and worn, seemed buffeted by the barely contained energy that suddenly vibrated from this man, this scruffy and care-worn doctor.

"I will take the child, Robert. He is mine. James paid, and so shall I."

Robert narrowed his eyes. However, the sight of the thin figure in front of him leaning over the child upon the floor, his overcoat dragging across the floor in a wavering juxtaposition of an angel's protection and a predator's snare ceased his attempts at protest. There was nothing more he could do.

"Six months, Pellinore," he said, going behind this desk and collapsing into his creaking chair. "You have to make your choice in six months. After that he will be in the system because more than anyone else, he deserves that. I'll stop by later in the week with the paperwork."

The doctor nodded curtly, turned his heel and strode to the door. He yanked it open and a tingling drizzle flew in, spitting flakes upon the aged wood.

"Come," he said, fixing his fathomless black eyes upon the small boy with his bandaged feet and dirtied hat.

And he followed, trudging back into the night from whence he came, under the unrelenting presence of Dr Pellinore Warthrop.


	2. A Debt That is Ultimately Mine

"Will? William? What would you like to be called?"

The doctor tossed his gaze towards the damp bundle ensconced in the adjacent seat, stark orange against the solid black leather. Beats of vermillion ran across the child's face, hooded black eyes staring blankly into the liquid gloom that coursed and teared down the windshield.

"I will need you to answer me," growled Warthrop impatiently. He navigated the Daytona through the outskirts of New Jerusalem, drenched in preternatural darkness as if it too was mourning the loss of the doctor's friend and colleague.

The smudge of orange shifted, pulling itself tighter. "My name is William James Henry."

Warthrop huffed, lips drawing thin.

"I do know that," he said curtly, pulling the vehicle down the tiny neighborhood lane in which he lived, road flanked on both sides by tangled etchings of trees, their grotesque limbs snagging against the undulating storm above.

The boy did not reply.

Warthrop clenched his teeth, biting off a retort against the boy's mulish behavior. He never remembered James ever mentioning this about his child.

With James, it was always smiles and grins when the other travelers asked him about his family after another obtusely long and unnecessary phone call. And it was always one that could have been saved for an idler time in their journey, not immediately after landing at some airport, hours after having left his family. Like relationships, families proved an irritating distraction to their greater work at hand.

Warthrop never understood it. Work was work and home was home. James would be able to see and interact with Mary and William at his house, so why did he constantly need to interrupt that time set aside for their research to check up on their banal domestic activities?

It wasn't like anything significant ever happened that require his constant checking. Not to mention the profuse apologizes he always gave for his longer than allotted time to listen to his son on the phone talk about some school project or something equally senseless.

In addition to those calls, James would always make sure to return home when he could on ‘special’ days, beaming all the while about what he would do to celebrate them. These held no significance to Warthrop. Birthdays would happen again, so why was it so important that he leave Warthrop's side to wish them another happy one?

Cutting off the engine after pulling into his driveway, Pellinore leaned back against the seat, breathing heavily through his nose.

The snow had fully given away to rain, and now splattered incessantly against the window, popping angrily.

He pinched the area between his eyes, rubbing until spots swam beneath his lids.

James was gone. After all he tried to do.

It echoed in his head, convulsing with accusation.

He had done everything at his disposal. Why didn't that stop this from happening?

Pellinore threw clawed hands at his face, allowing the thin fingers to tear down his haggard face.

He was there, _just this morning._ Attending to their work in his study, he suddenly felt a pang of unfounded but undeniable fear in regards to James. He had left, knowing logically that there was no basis for such a reaction—no phone call, no knock—but nothing could stop him from going. 

James, his assistant that never retreated from any dangerous trip. His assistant that upheld such an upstanding system of beliefs and lived fully towards a life geared towards good. He had fallen like Daedalus, blindly following his charge's lofty ambition and genius.

It horrified him just how far James fell and continued to fall, despite his and Mary's efforts.

Sometimes James would show up upon Warthrop's doorstep and it would take every iota of his control to remain the ever vigilant doctor, reminding James that he had no need of his services at that moment. That he needed to be with his wife. To be resting. That whatever ailed him could not be fixed if he kept returning to his side.

James' drawn features would drop, crestfallen, the carved brackets in his once-youthful features giving him the appearance of a weathered old man. Dull eyes flinted with the glimmer of who James once was, but no matter how hard they tried, he kept slipping further and further away. Like a sputtering candle consumed to the wick, James had flitted out and took everything with him.

Warthrop lurched forward, jerking the key out of the ignition. The unnatural verdant glow of the dials winked out of existence, leaving the pair alone in the darkness.

"Come, we need to get inside," bit out Warthrop, flinging himself out of the Daytona. He slammed the driver's door shut, and cast himself into the pouring rain, sprinting to the protection of the sheltered porch. The rain hissed around him as he fumbled with the keys in the dark, bottom lip caught in his teeth.

Warthrop threw a look behind him and saw the child was still back at the car, slowly pushing the door shut but not completely; the interior light still remained on.

Warthrop cursed under his breath, fingers still slick from the torrential downpour. He shoved the key into the lock and threw open the door.

"Snap to! Get inside! I'll get it— _snap to!"_

The boy didn’t move any faster with the command. He just ambled up the sidewalk, head bowed. Warthrop bounded past the boy, tore open the passenger door and slammed it shut. He ran back and pulled the front door shut behind him with a resounding _WHAM!_

The child stood off to the side at the front of the hallway staircase, bedraggled and soaked. His tufty brown hair was tamed by the sheer weight of the water, plastered to his wet face and dripping.

Warthrop flung his coat off himself, hurling droplets into the unlit vestibule. He shook the garment and hung it on the ancient coatrack in the corner. Fumbling for the switch he threw them on, bathing the dusty hall with a soft yellowing glow.

"Give me your blanket."

Warthrop beckoned impatiently at the boy, who came over and gently placed the sopping wet blanket into his hand.

"I'll show you all that you will require to know of this household for now, as it is imperative that you receive adequate rest for tomorrow. I will divulge more then."

The boy nodded mutely, face never leaving the puddling hardwood floor.

Warthrop followed his gaze. "Good gracious, boy! Did you not wear shoes?"

The bandages around Will's feet were unraveling, bits of dead grass stuck around the dirty linen.

"No," he said quietly. "I-I..." He fidgeted with his hands in his damp t-shirt. "There wasn't any."

Warthrop stared down at him. He grumbled and looked away down the hall, running his fingers through his wet hair.

"Since you neglected to care for your own injuries, I'll see to them, but do not waste my good efforts by neglecting them again."

Warthrop whirled, striding towards the end of the hallway. Will followed, entering the brightly lit kitchen, but the doctor was nowhere to be found. The boy wavered, not daring to enter further.

The kitchen was an atrocious mess, cabinets half open and half empty, its contents currently piled high in the double sinks and spilling over onto the countertops. The kitchen smelled funny, of stale food and some sort of sickly sweet odor Will could not identify.

The two chairs around the small circular kitchen table were buried under piles upon piles of print-outs and underneath, balled up pieces littered the tiled floor like discarded thoughts. Mugs perched upon every horizontal surface including the floor, some completely full. A couple even had a filmy layer of mold floating on top.

Something thundered to Will's right and a door burst open, ejecting the disheveled form of a one Dr Pellinore Warthrop, his shirtsleeves braced around his thin biceps.

"Sit! Snap to, snap to!" he shouted, waving impatiently towards the child.

Will looked at the two seats filled to toppling with important looking paperwork. He took a few steps into the kitchen. He looked for guidance from the scowling man but received none. Not knowing what to do, Will plopped himself at the man's feet.

"Oh for god's sake! You are a child, not a pet!" exclaimed Warthrop, tossing his hands into the air. He marched to one of the chairs and shoveled the paperwork onto the floor. "Here, sit!"

Will scrambled up from the floor and perched himself on the very edge of the seat, his scrawny legs dangling a couple inches off the ground.

Warthrop dropped to one knee and began to tug and unravel the bandages, tossing the soiled linen on the ground. He removed a jar of antiseptic from the tabletop where he placed it and rubbed salve over the cuts and blisters upon Will's feet. Deft fingers took the roll of gauze and swiftly bound each foot with ease. A quick flick of the wrist, and Dr Warthrop secured the bandage with a small clip.

"That should hold. Don't pick at it and to ensure they remain sterile, put on some socks."

Dr Warthrop rose and went to wash his hands, maneuvering his bony arms around the mess in the sink.

Will started to shiver in his seat, the cold temperature of the home finally seeping into his body and exacerbated by the damp garments.

"Yes, sir," replied Will through trembling teeth. "But I have none."

Warthrop turned, brows raised as he wiped his hands on his trousers. "What? No clothes? Robert didn't leave you any?"

Will shook his head, wrapping his arms around himself. "N-no. These were the only ones that fit."

Warthrop rested against the counter, lean hip pushing back a pile of dirty dishes. He rubbed at this forehead, massaging his temples.

Letting out a prolonged breath, his hands fell, clutching the countertops. Warthrop regarded the floor for a while, then with a sigh, he removed himself from the counter.

"We shall see about procuring some adequate clothing for you then but for now, follow me."

Warthrop started up the steps to the second floor, Will trudging along behind, a sudden weariness dragging at his shaking frame. Upon the open landing, Warthrop took a left and made his way to the furthest bedroom down the hall.

Will stood upon the dark threshold while Warthrop grumbled and dug through the top of his drawers.

"Here, divest yourself of your wet garments and put on these." A bundle of worn fabric was thrust at him.

Will hesitated for a moment, looking somewhat dazed by the offering.

The doctor crossed his arms and scowled. "I am a doctor,” he barked. “There is nothing I am not aware of I can assure you, William."

Will hurried to pull himself free of the clinging fabric, hearing his name being snapped at like a disobedient child. He was tired and the strange doctor's tone was starting to grate upon his frazzled nerves.

"My name is William James Henry," muttered Will to himself as he pushed his head through the large shirt.

"Yes, I think I got the information the first time," replied Warthrop dryly as if the child's brain had indeed become addled with his ordeal. "If you dislike my usage of your first name, as is customary with all human relations and interactions when one is residing in another's home, then perhaps you would care to enlighten me on your preferred name this time?"

The huge shirt hung off Will, a freckled shoulder peeking through the collar. Will worried the soft threadbare fabric in his fingers, eyes arrested by the image on the front.

The art was so familiar, the fallen angel with his arms outstretched embracing the stark gothic lettering of the band's name. His dad had gotten one at a concert long ago when he was little. Though his mother was upset that he had gone to such a thing, he often saw his father wearing the shirt around the house.

His father was proud of the work he did, and loved entertaining Will with fantastic tales of his trips with this very man, traversing the world at his side. A rock concert in Germany where Will’s favorite fairy tales were borne. Trips to island nations of sprawling jungle and growing concrete oases. Pockets and pockets full of unbelievable trinkets and gifts.

Will loved it all, relishing in this father's fond memories of his many journeys.

 _"Can I go with you, Father?"_ he would ask with an excited quiver to his voice, much too wide-awake to even consider sleeping, much to his father's sheepish chagrin.

_"Perhaps one day, my little Will. He does great work, the monstrumologist; I would like it very much to have you by my side with him..."_

The pilled fabric jerked against his fingers, a surge of emotion expelling throughout the boy's trembling body.

"My name is Will—"

A sob choked like vomit in this throat and his mouth trapped it in. Hot tears pricked at his eyes and he swallowed harshly. His lips worked desperately around the tasteless air, before drifting off. Small, nearly inaudible.

"...Henry."

Warthrop nodded and then held out his hand for the boy's sodden clothes.

"Come Will Henry, I'll show you your room."

 

***

 

Red-rimmed eyes flashed, flicking back and forth between the paperwork in pale hands and the old flip clock.

It had been a long night for the sole occupant of 425 Harrington Lane, who now had an orphan tucked away in his attic. After showing the child the facilities and his attic bedroom, as well as ensuring the boy properly covered his feet with a pair of his socks, Pellinore left the child to sleep.

Pellinore had abandoned his work an hour ago, fingers tapping relentlessly upon the copious amounts of notes from his and James’ last case together in the Florida Everglades. He had continued his work for weeks without James, though the endless nights of snatched sleep and hours upon hours of review and dissections without his assistant had slowly deteriorated his well-being.

The plastic numbers flipped to eight o' clock and Pellinore rushed to his study, almost slipping upon the dusty hardwood.

He yanked the phone from its receiver and punched in the numbers for the Society Headquarters. The cord bounced against him in agitation as he waited for the directive services to finish with its menu of options. After the beep, he punched in the extension for the president's office.

He paced while the phone rang, pulling the cord taut and retreating again.

Being so early in the morning, Pellinore sincerely hoped he'd actually get Dr von Helrung rather than his Command of Finances, who often answered the phone if he was indisposed.

It clicked.  Pellinore straightened, muscles pulled taut. "Is this the office of Dr von Helrung?"

"Damn straight, else you wouldn't be fucking calling this number you simpleton."

Pellinore threw his head back and groaned, rubbing his eyes. "It's called phone etiquette, Dr Solowit."

"Or masking one's stupidity. But whatever you'd like, I ain't here to discuss your own personal kinks. Got better things to do." Static flitted as she shifted the phone on the other end. "So what you want, Warthrop?"

"Doctor _,"_ stated Warthrop with an impatient snap. " _Doctor_ Warthrop."

"No need to fucking announce yourself like the bloody Queen. I already know you, Warthrop. You ain't exactly unforgettable." He could hear a snort on the other end.

"Could you pass me over to Dr von Helrung? It is urgent," ground out Warthrop.

"Ah, sadly our bossman is indisposed at the moment but as I am currently available this fine morning, you will entertain me with your urgent platitudes instead."

"I could hang up and try again."

"And I could refuse to answer, letting your number forever go to voicemail, so let's cut to the chase." Her voice grew sharp. "What is it? Another expedition proposal your well-stocked wallet couldn't fund for itself?"

Pellinore reined several scathing retorts, knowing he’d get absolutely nowhere save providing Dr Solowit her fun for the morning. His jaw clenched tightly.

"I have...procured a child."

Raucous laughter erupted on the other end. "What? You pick a stray up off the streets? You hiding the evidence in your attic?"

Pellinore flushed red.

"Why do you deliberately insist on being obtuse? Of course I do not go pilfering unknown children from the street!" he snapped.

"Oh. Then congratulations on joining the rest of humanity, Dr Warthrop,” yawned Solowit, sounding bored. “You got yourself a by-blow?"

Warthrop sputtered in outrage, yanking on the bouncing phone cord and wrapping it around his arm.

"For God's sakes, IT IS JAMES' CHILD!" Warthrop yelled, finally losing patience with the doctor.

Silence fell upon the room, save the desolate drone of the early morning rain in the grey-washed study.

"What happened?"

Warthrop sagged against the desk, fingers threading through his limp hair, tugging at the strands as he tried to give voice to what had been replaying over and over all throughout the night in his mind.

"I-I..."

His empty hand suddenly balled into a fist and smashed against his thigh.

"Just get me von Helrung. This does not concern you," Warthrop barked, eyes clenching shut. He muttered curses under his breath, fisted hand twisting in the fabric of his trousers. The rough exhalations of the doctor's breathing joined the soft cry of rain and the hammering of his heart.

"I understand, Doctor."

The phone clicked and soft music fell upon Pellinore's ear as he waited for his mentor to pick up the phone.

Pellinore leaned over his cluttered desk, piled high with leather tomes and several cheap paperbacks, and flicked the lacy curtains open. Hardened light flitted through the quivering shrubbery, lending the dark office with a drab glow.

He straightened, listening to the ambient noise of his father's home. Hearing nothing that bespoke of another occupant out and about, Pellinore resumed pacing. His socked feet shuffled across the worn carpet, bumping into books that had been left there where he had tossed them.

The receiver clicked on the other end and Pellinore froze, clutching the device tightly in his hand.

" _Mein_ Pellinore, what is the matter? Dr Solowit told me it is urgent! What happened?" His mentor's voice, with its thick accent and joviality, was dampened by his concern.

Pellinore's free hand closed slowly, arm stiffening. He had never informed von Helrung of James' condition even after weeks of his condition slowly deteriorating.

 _It had been his responsibility._ He felt in his understanding of James’ illness, he could fix it. It never was his mentor's concern.

But now it had to be.

Pellinore bowed his head, covering stinging eyes with his hand. "It's James."

"James! What happened with James? Did he have to leave early again like with Amsterdam? Oh _Mein Freund_ , you will have to elaborate, I have not heard from you for two months!" cried von Helrung.

"He's...he's gone."

There was no response save the tinny scratch, scratch of the heaving shrubbery against the glass.

"Gone, Pellinore?"

"Mary too."

Pellinore swallowed, tamping down what threatened to fall loose from its moorings deep inside.

"They died in a fire last night," he finished, tone stale and dead.

"Oh _Mien Gott!_ What was it? Was everything destroyed? Pellinore, my dear Pellinore, what of little William?" exclaimed the old man, voice rising with alarm.

Everything pounded within Pellinore, heart knocking against his ribs, stomach protesting in a fury of knots, mind awhirl with shattered fragment of thoughts.

The anxious wait in-between calls that tore until the seams that held him together threatened to fall apart. The forlorn look of his assistant upon the bed, withered and lost. The emptiness of a house that had never been for so long a time.

Snatches. Fever-bright. Wisping away as soon as he focused on them, flitting like maddened embers.

"I have the boy," he answered, mouth dry. "He had run. But yes...nothing else is left."

A sharp intake of breath filled Pellinore's hearing. It released into a sorrowful sigh. "I am so sorry Pellinore..."

Soft German filled his senses and Pellinore cradled his eyes deeper into his hand, wishing to drown out all other sensation.

"It's just so inconceivable, von Helrung," he whispered. "I saw him no less than twenty-four hours prior. What am I to do?"

"William, he's well, yes?"

"What?" Pellinore's hand fell from his face. He shook his head. "Yes yes, the child is fine, just some third degree burns and cuts. He's sleeping."

"That should be our first priority then, _mien Freund_. The child, yes? James' son, he'll need help. Who will take the child in? We need to find someone for William."

"I already took care of that, Abram. I just informed you the child is with me," said Pellinore, frowning.

"No, no Pellinore! Child needs a father, yes? Legalities! How is he supposed to grow in this world without a proper family? I shall look immediately to it while you care for him in the meantime." The man's voice drifted away as he turned to look for something.

Immediately, something nagged at Pellinore. His last handful of friends and relations were willing to help both himself and the boy get what they needed: the boy a permanent home and Pellinore back his solitude and uninterrupted work. But something unsettling sat within him at the notion.

A series of sharp beeps whined in his ear, pulling his attention from the strange feeling. He turned, the red blinking light signaling another incoming call grabbed his attention. It was an unknown number, so Pellinore punched the dial and sent it straight to the answering machine.

"Pellinore, you still there? I have some time to visit three weeks from now, if you'd desire me to do so? I cannot come earlier than that sadly, _mein Freund_. But shall that still work?"

"Yes yes," responded Pellinore distractedly, the beeps popping annoyingly in his ear again. Frustrated, he punched it back to the answering machine.

"Officer Morgan is coming by later with paperwork," added Pellinore off-handedly, glaring at the steady red light that informed him of a message.

"Paperwork, Pellinore? Was it a criminal arson?"

"What? No!" cried Pellinore, jerking his attention back to the conversation. "It was ruled an accident by both the preliminary investigator and the boy himself." Pellinore gathered his thoughts, plucking at his bottom lip.

"He is bringing the foster care paperwork, _Meister_ Abram."

Rain swirled upon the window and the shrubbery whispered gently in the subsequent silence.

"Ah, I see. But, Pellinore, do not feel guilty for an accident," chided his mentor gently. "You do so enough already, more so than you ever should. You know that always, but still continue to do so! I will help both you and William, yes? We will find someone worthy of raising James' child as he surely deserves! Do not linger in sadness, Pellinore. I do not believe James would have wished you to do so." The older man's voice had become soft, its Austrian burr easing Pellinore's agitation and distress into bone-deep weariness and exhaustion.

"Yes, I know. I promised James and Robert that I will provide all I can for the child, until the most apt solution can be found and implemented. As of now, I am all that is left between James and him."

"You are indeed!" von Helrung exclaimed. "So three weeks’ time! If you shall need me, remember you can always call at my niece’s."

Pellinore's face twisted at that. "I do not desire to impose upon the Bates'."

Quiet laughter rumbled through the receiver. " _Ach_ , Pellinore, you will have to if you wish to reach me! You know I'm still renovating the brownstone."

Pellinore sighed and looked out the window. "I shall make note of it."

"Ah good. You and young William take care," said von Helrung, tone soft and sad. "I do have to go, but I wish you both the best. For James and Mary."

Pellinore nodded. "Thank you, Abram."

The line cut, phone droning in the stifling space. Pellinore hung the device back on its perch before collapsing in his seat. His arms hung over the leather armrests and he let his head fall back against the back of the chair.

Grey light filtered across his exhausted and drawn features, lids fluttering against his sunken eyes.

He had done everything he could.

And as always, it never was enough.

***


	3. Out of Our Element

"Sir?"

Pellinore woke with a start, nearly bolting out of his chair. His hands scrambled for the armrests of his chair and gripped them tightly, body coiling.

"What the devil are you doing here, Will Henry?"

The little boy stood a few feet away, looking around the small stuffy study before fixing his soft brown eyes back upon Pellinore, who slumped back into his seat.  He thread his fingers into his overgrown fringe, releasing a stilted breath.

"I was looking for you, sir."

"Whatever for? When I am in my study, Will Henry, I do not like to be disturbed unless I say otherwise."

"Yes, sir," the boy replied, looking down at his feet. Pellinore's donated mismatched socks hung limply down his ankles and bunched around his feet. His old tee had made an acceptable nightgown for the child, covering past his knees, though it was constantly being wrung in his small hands.

Pellinore rose a brow when no more information came forth. 

"Well? Have you come here for nothing?" He tapped his fingers against the brass buttons of his seat.

"No, sir," replied Will quickly, catching the doctor’s surly countenance. He twisted the hem of his shirt.

"It's just..." He looked around the room before lowering his gaze back to the floor. "I'm hungry. I didn't want to intrude."

Pellinore rubbed his eyes wearily. "Yet you have done so by coming in here, Will Henry; that is the very definition of the word."

The doctor sighed. "Very well then, let's see what we can do. Afterwards, you will make yourself presentable so we can acquire you some new clothes."

Will's expression became frantic for a second before falling back into his doleful gaze.

He followed the doctor down the hall into the kitchen once again, the messiness of the room unabated in the slated morning light. To Will, it seemed that even more paper had been added to the tinderbox that was the doctor's dining table, the floor now strewn with snowy drifts of desecrated tree pulp.

Will waited near the burgeoning table while Pellinore grumbled to himself and began digging through each of the cabinets. He flung them open and snapped them shut when he did not find what he needed. In one he let out a soft exclamation and tossed a chipped bowl onto the only empty spot on the countertop.

Next he checked all the lower cabinets, including under the sink. Finding nothing, he sprung up and began rifling through all the drawers. A happy cry produced a slightly bent spoon that joined the bowl, clattering as he threw it in.

When there were no more cabinets to check, Warthrop stood back and scowled at the kitchen as if it was hiding what he needed on purpose.

He went to the fridge and flung it open. Then slammed it shut again.

"Well, it seems that I am out of consumables. I wasn't aware of this development," admitted Warthrop, rubbing the back of his head. "We shall have to restock the larder as well."

Will hovered near the table before picking his way over to the doctor. "Sir, what should I do then?"

"Hmm? Oh, you can go and get dressed with what you wore yesterday. That should be sufficient for what we require at the store," he said absentmindedly, staring at the fridge.

Will fidgeted. "But sir, those are still wet."

Warthrop turned sharply. "What do you mean, Will Henry? They should have dried overnight already; they were only damp."

"Yes, sir, but you forgot to hang them up. So they’re still wet."

Warthrop's brows lowered, eyes flashing with ire. "What do you mean I forgot to hang them up? If I remember correctly, those were your garments you changed out of, so therefore you had forgotten to let them dry."

Will looked everywhere but the doctor, desperate to avoid his displeasure and glaring eyes.

"I found them this morning like that, sir. On the floor, I mean. So I hung them for you, since you took them from me last night," tried Will.

He had awakened this morning fully exhausted, though he couldn't remember falling asleep at all. Pieces of his memory were missing, boxed away like childish toys. However, seeing the discarded pile of wet clothes had reminded him of the night’s events with the doctor.

His father spoke highly of him and despite his fear of the eccentric man, Will was desperate to make a good impression for his father. So he hung them up upon the banister.

But now the doctor was upset with him and Will didn’t know what to do.

"I'm sorry sir," he replied timidly, when the doctor did nothing but stare at him with those coal black eyes, smudged in their hollows.

Dr Warthrop, at Will's apology, grew agitated and began pacing, kicking aside his strewn papers.

"There is nothing I have more distaste for than lying, Will Henry. It is the human condition and our natural predilection to lean towards lying and other consuming addictions, but I digress."

He spun on his heel, feet pressed together and hands locked behind his back. Despite the shabbiness of his attire and several days’ growth of stubble, he took upon the mantle of seasoned orator, looking down his charge with a flaying eye.

"Lying is the worst kind of buffoonery, Will Henry. Above all else!" He made a cutting motion with his hand. "All problems within our society, within our very relationships would cease if we were more honest with each other. I will expect this from you. That you will always, when speaking to me, tell the truth. I do not require much from those I work with, save that and one other quality."

Despite standing stock-still, the man before him had become imbued with so much passion, it radiated off of him as hotly as a star, blazoning in the room against the weak sunlight. Though terrifying in its intensity, Will couldn't help but hold his figure in awe, much like stumbling upon some mundane creature and watching it transform into a thing of rare splendor.

"What is the other thing sir?" Will couldn't help but ask.

Warthrop fixed his dark gaze upon the boy, snatching his eyes.

"Undying loyalty. Where I go, one must always follow. That is the one thing I desire above all else, Will Henry."

Transfixed, the boy nodded mutely.

Satisfied with his response, Warthrop turned and thrust his hands into his pockets, hunching slightly, shattering the image from before.

"However, that does not solve the situation at hand.” He frowned. "I have no knowledge of what a child requires, yet here I am in need of such items!"

He threw a glance over at Will Henry, eyes narrowing. "Not to mention, you still have no footwear, so it is useless!"

"Sir, I can—"

"Not now, Will Henry. I wish to be off before the place is swarming with people I have no desire to run into," cut Warthrop, straightening out his wrinkled shirt in some attempt of propriety.

The doctor started to dig through the mounds of paperwork on the table, knocking a small bottle to the ground. Petulant, he retrieved it and placed it back.

Not finding what he was looking for, he marched out the kitchen. Sharp bangs and shuffling echoed down the hall while the doctor ransacked one of the rooms. A shout of triumph and the doctor returned immediately, pair of shoes in hand and the other shoving a worn leather wallet into his back trouser pocket.

"I shall return upon the hour, Will Henry. I do not enjoy wasting time on such activities as you will soon come to understand. Nothing is more important than one's work and the pursuit of it, and I hope to resume as much as possible in light of...recent events."

Warthrop had been busy shoving his sock-clad feet into a pair of worn sneakers, head bowed to the task. However, he paused, ties in hands as he finished his statement. He shuddered, then attacked the shoes with a vigorous snap of the laces.

"What should I do while you are gone, sir?" asked the boy quietly when the man surged to his feet and made a beeline for the hallway.

Warthrop skidded to a halt and spun around. He regarded the child and then the mess around him.

"You could make yourself useful," he stated. "The kitchen is in disarray and it would provide a bit of usefulness to have it clean. The broom is in the corner." He waved a hand towards a dusty nook near the back door.

"However, under no circumstances are you to set foot in the basement, my study or the library," he commanded. "Is that understood?"

Will nodded, looking at a murky tea cup a few inches near his foot. "I can do that."

"Good! Do not disturb anything you do not understand either!" called Warthrop as he left. The front door closed the boy in with a resounding thump. The lock secured itself with a sharp  _click!_  and Will registered the rumble of the engine as it pulled away from the house.

Will finally slumped over, hands dangling loosely at his sides. Everything within him felt heavy, like he was weighted down with stones from the bottom of his stomach to his aching feet.

Following the doctor’s orders, he trudged over to the corner and tore the broom loose from the cobwebs that held it. He wiped it clean and then propped it against the doctor's dinner table.

Will Henry sniffed pathetically, wiping his nose with the back of his hand as he surveyed the wreck. Even though the doctor having given Will a haphazard tour of his two-story home, Will had spent time in the house before. Apparently the doctor didn’t know this or had forgotten.

He’d never seen the house fall to this extent of disarray before and didn’t know where to start. The doctor was already upset with him now, and he didn’t want to make him more unhappy.

Will wiped his face with the bottom of his pajama shirt before searching the premises for all the dirtied teacups. He dumped them in the sink before emptying it enough to be able to actually wash the dishes.

A shrill ring cut through the clatter of the dishes. Will flinched and a startled tremor ran through him. Heart racing, he registered the noise as the doctor's home phone. He hunched over the sink, wet dish and sponge in hand while he willed the phone to cut off and leave him alone.

It ceased, leaving a tinny ring that burrowed itself into Will's ear. He tensed, eyes burning hot. He immediately began attacking the dishes with furious scrubbing, water splattering everywhere. Dishes clinked as he piled them high into the unused drying rack.

Soon he became exhausted, slowing until he was finished with the chore. He took clean glass from the pile and poured himself some water, parched as he had nothing to drink since leaving the station-house.

He guzzled it down thirstily, before trudging off to the paper mess. More chaotic than initially expected, Will noticed that the wooden buffet and antique china cabinet on the other side of the kitchen had also held its weight in papers as well, along with an old laptop and some tangled wires.

Will set himself to task, scooping the papers from the floor into neat piles and setting them back on the table so he could sweep.

Gradually, the normalcy of the work calmed him as he fell into the habit of something he did countless times before. He always helped his mother at home and accompanied her to Harrington Lane when everyone else was away. It was something he knew how to do, in this strange world where everything was topsy-turvy and Will no longer knew how to navigate the terrain.

It was comforting, the subtle swish of the broom and once again cleaning the doctor's home when both the doctor and his father were not around.

 _But it wasn’t_ —he knew it wasn’t the same.

He was entirely alone now, and not even the assurance of a habitual activity prevented his shirtfront from becoming dotted with tears.

 

***

 

Dr Pellinore Warthrop was completely out of his element.

He was one of the most eminent and prolific researchers in the field of aberrant biology, having had navigated some of the most remote and challenging parts of the world in the pursuit of knowledge. Countless expeditions, research projects, and collaborative speeches had been instigated and led by none other than himself over the years in his illustrious career as a monstrumologist.

However, once he pulled into the nearest store that was not the Wal-Mart, he realized just how difficult his task was going to be.

He did not have to supply his team with clothes; they were adults and knew how to provide for themselves. How was he supposed to know what an eleven-year-old boy needed?

The boy had literally nothing, save one peculiar hat he had put on the peg in his room that reeked of acrid smoke. He very much wished he had the boy here instead so he could have done the logical thing and sent the boy in to procure what he knew he needed.

Pellinore spent the entire trip muttering under his breath about anything and everything. He figured that a small child was no more than just that: no different than a smaller version of himself. So he figured what he needed, the boy would need.

So he just began throwing things into his cart that looked reputable and not at all appalling to his senses. It was irritating how colorful child's clothing was, as if children needed another way of being loud and in the way. Even more frustrating, the clothes came in numbers rather than actual sizes, and it took Pellinore the longest time to infer the numbers corresponded with the child's age.

Scowling, he threw in a bunch of neutral shirts that were bereft of any frivolity or obscene cartoon characters. However in selecting shirts, he was skeptical that James' tiny son could fit any of them. Despite being labeled ‘11-12’, they all seemed too large for him. But for the doctor, it was an added bonus, as the child could grow into the clothes and he wouldn't have to spend his time or money doing this abhorrent trip again for a very long time.

Fortunately for Pellinore, both pants and undergarments were sized similarly so he threw a couple into his cart as well along with a belt and a package of socks.

Turning the corner into the footwear section, he immediately cursed when he remembered that the child did not mention what size shoe he wore. It was the end of February, so he couldn't buy sandals which would have been the most convenient and logical choice. So scowling in displeasure, he just threw in several sizes of the same shoe based on his observations when he had wrapped the child's foot.

He spent the rest of the trip in a completely ill-tempered mood, not knowing or remembering what to buy and growing more and more despondent as he had to fill his cart. When the total rang up, he handed over his debit card with the darkest glower and the offended clerk shot him back one in return.

Tossing his wares into the hatchback, Pellinore wheeled the cart into the empty space next to him and left for home.

Pellinore was extremely agitated when he reached his house, throwing open the trunk and dragging as many bags he could inside. He tried opening the door but found it locked.

"For God's sakes!" he snarled, about to throw down his bags. But the door clicked and fell open, revealing his scruffy addition to the household.

They stared at each other, the child in his too large hand-me-downs from the doctor and the doctor with his multitude of blindly picked out purchases for the child.

"Ah, yes. Thank you, Will Henry," said the doctor, brusquely pushing past the boy into the vestibule. Pellinore practically flew into the kitchen and dumped his burden onto the kitchen floor.

"Here, you can start putting the food where they belong while I get the rest, since you are still bereft of footwear." The doctor bounded from the kitchen and out the door, leaving Will to rifle through the bunches of bags on the floor.

He found a variety of cereal and breakfast bars, surprisingly all either cherry or raspberry flavored. Will found an extremely erratic and varied supply of food, from cups of yoghurt (all a variety of berry) to beef jerky to canned soups and a loaf of French bread. Will was super confused when he pulled out a jar of madras curry and raw frozen shrimp from one. He even found a whole bag dedicated to boxes of Darjeeling tea, as if the man felt there would be an apocalyptic shortage of them in the future.

Will dutifully began packing away the doctor's goods, leaving only a nondescript white paper bag, a jug of milk and a box of cereal on the counter for breakfast.

The front door slammed shut and in shuffled Warthrop, letting the rest of the bags drop to the floor against the wall. Will made to retrieve them but he waved him off.

"Later, Will Henry. Have you stocked the perishables?"

Will nodded and stood off to the side for the doctor to inspect his handiwork.

The doctor stood for a second, eyes scanning the now spotless kitchen. Dishes stood high in the drying rack and the sink was scrubbed clean as well as the countertops. A sort of energy propelled him as he walked around his still messy table, as Will did not want to disturb the doctor's work. The man hummed, plucking at his bottom lip, his eyes lighter as he took everything in. He walked around, checking every cabinet and drawer before returning to the boy.

"This is most acceptable Will Henry," said the doctor nodding in satisfaction. "You will prove indispensable yet, as your father before you. I shall teach you a great deal of things in the future, but as I see you have obviously left a the milk and cereal out and about, we shall partake of breakfast."

Something small and tiny bubbled up within the boy at the doctor's words, a spring of some unknown emotion that ran undercurrent to the yawning fissure that now resided deep inside him.

Will shuffled to the counter, prepared his cereal and balancing the bowl in one hand, carefully made himself a spot at the table. Satisfied, he sat down and began eating.

However, Will became a bit nervous under the watchful gaze of the doctor, who had plopped himself opposite of Will and kept staring at him as if he was some strange new creature he found in his house.

Will fidgeted with his spoon before he couldn't take it anymore. "Um, sir, shouldn't you be eating too?" he blurted.

Instantly, he blushed at the remark and hunched his shoulders to hide his burning face.

"Mm? Oh. Perhaps." Warthrop broke the intense eye contact and leaned back in his chair. "I am not particularly hungry at the moment. I shall partake when needed."

Will took in the thin figure of the doctor, the bony forearm resting upon a stack of paperwork and his sharp angular face. He shrugged and resumed eating his cereal. He was happy that it was one his father had always liked, rather than the bland healthy kind his mother preferred.

After Will had finished and rinsed out his bowl and spoon, Warthrop jumped up from the chair and beckoned impatiently for Will to join him where the other bags lay against the wall.

"Come, come! I have procured your clothing essentials, Will Henry."

Will came over, slightly hesitant as the doctor knelt on the floor. He began rummaging through the bags and chucking garments at the small child whose hands instantly became filled with a mountain of dark-colored clothes.

"Take these upstairs, Will Henry," he instructed, rising up from his spot on the floor. "You can come back for the shoes; you'll need to try them on since you did not tell me your shoe size. You will return the ones that are inadequate when we have the chance later." Then he plopped two packages of underwear atop Will's massive armful of new clothes.

Will colored at the packages—at the very _idea_ of this bizarre man picking out underwear for him!  Now Will sorely wished he had gone instead, wet clothes or pajamas, shoes or no shoes. He was just glad they had no cartoons on them; Will tried not to think about it if it did.

"Thank you, sir," said Will, face muffled in the clothes as he tried to maneuver them in his aching arms.

"Yes, yes," said the doctor dismissively, rubbing the back of his head, hand in one pocket. "Well, snap to! I need you dressed and down here this instant!"

Will struggled out of the kitchen, wares in tow, careful not to trip on the dangling long-sleeves and pants. It took two trips to dump his new wardrobe on his little attic bed from the ladder. The room was still dusty from disuse despite him having slept in it; Will made sure not to get them dirty.

With trembling fingers, Will began to remove the individual items and spread them face-up upon his made coverlet. All the clothes were shades of grey or black, with some blue jeans tossed in for color. But they were of good quality and had no design whatsoever or a nonobtrusive pattern to it.

In the bundle was also a package of socks and his underwear, which once again made him flush with embarrassment as he ripped it open and quickly shoved his body into a clean pair.

"Will Henry! What is taking you so long?" shouted the doctor from below.

"C-coming!" he shouted back, hoping the man could hear him from two stories up. Will threw off his nightgown and put on one of his new outfits and scampered down his ladder. He nearly ran into Warthrop who had turned the corner upon the landing.

"Ah Will Henry, there you are. I see the clothes fit you sufficiently with room for growth. That is beneficial."

Warthrop began to march back down the stairs without a glance behind him.

"Come Will Henry, there is work to be done."

 

***

 

 


	4. And So Begins Our Tentative Journey

Officer Morgan visited three days later.

In the meantime, the occupants of 425 Harrington Lane had fallen into a semi-routine, with the doctor being the more sporadic of the pair.

Will Henry would awake very early, heart in his throat and an unfamiliar vaulted ceiling above his head. Only sustained breaths and the slow steady refrain of ‘ _it’s the doctor’s house, I’m ok’_  would calm him down from whatever plagued him and vanished, without any trace or memory of itself.

Rubbing his hands over his face, he’d always feel as though he never got any sleep at all. But Will always got out of bed as soon as he could, dressing himself and making his bed in case the doctor needed him. Will made sure to eat his breakfast as soon as he could, because he quickly learned that such simple things weren’t always first and foremost in the doctor’s mind, if at all.

Sometimes when Will was eating, the doctor would wander into the kitchen, eyes half-lidded and feverish, as if he'd been working all night. The sight of Will eating breakfast at his dinner table would arrest him, halting his trek between the basement and the hallway. Warthrop would stare at him for a minute before muttering to himself and continuing where he left off.

As it was, Pellinore left Will alone to his own devices, as if he didn't exist save for when he bumped into him once or twice. He would look upon him with startled eyes, as if the boy was an intruder in his own home. And for his part, Will didn’t want to make the mistake in disturbing the doctor when he was in one of the three off-limit rooms, and Will figured if the doctor ever needed him, he'd call.

Roaming through the desolate house, Will wasn't sure what to do. He had none of his own personal affects or toys to occupy his time, no one to play with, and not even homework to do since he hadn't gone back to school since the fire. So instead, Will took to cleaning the rest of the house.

The first floor was half-dedicated to the doctor's personal rooms, with the entire right side of the staircase being made up for his study and his library. It was also the only two rooms that did not house the second floor and the attic, leaving the two rooms blissfully free of any stomping feet from above, however unlikely the case may be.

On the left side of the hallway stood the front parlor and a formal dining room, both of which welded shut with thick curtains, unused for months. Both rooms had a more delicate touch to it, filled with Chippendale furniture with cherry and walnut swirls as an elegant touch. It was completely at odds with the rich mahogany housed in the doctor's study and library.

Will spent the rest of the week tidying the dining room and parlor, fishing out the cobwebs and dusting all the neglected furniture thoroughly. Once the rooms were aired and the thick damask curtains drawn and secured, they took on a warmer, more pleasant quality despite the unceasing rain. The two rooms were sprinkled with bits of color here and there: a mint green chair cushion, a couple of foreign knick-knacks upon the cream fireplace mantle, gold leaf trimming on some delicate woodwork.

Will's own home had been void of such old-fashioned finery in their family rooms but it still lent that touch of being inviting for friends and family alike. But according to his mother, the doctor did not house either, desiring only his work and his seclusion.

Yet Will wasn't entirely sure about that, remembering a couple of times when his father would come home in a foul mood, complaining that the good doctor’s work interrupted by ' _that charlatan of a doctor'_ who apparently stopped by at times without his father knowing of his visit. Whoever that particular doctor was, his father never liked their company with the same vehemence his mother did not enjoy Dr Warthrop's.

Not that she would openly complain or display her displeasure about Warthrop towards her son—she always kept an upbeat attitude and talked of inconsequential things while they both cleaned his house together. She loved taking Will when the doctor was away; not only did she get to enjoy her son's company but it helped expedite the process, allowing her to escape that horrible place much quicker. She never let Will actively know of her dislike of the man, but he would always stumble upon some situation with her and his father that would show little by little how much she did not like Dr Warthrop or his abhorrent research.

Will wiped his brow, broom in hand. It was his second day in a row he tried to sweep the patterned carpets in both rooms free of dust and spiders. He hadn’t found the vacuum he remembered his mother using and not wanting to spark the doctor's ire by poking around his house, Will did his best and moved on.

He leaned on the broom handle, inspecting his work. He had wiped down every surface with simple soap and water and the old wood gleamed. Will hoped the doctor would be pleased with his work, when he decided to make an appearance.

Tidying up in the downstairs watercloset, Will wondered what kept the doctor so busy all day. He tried to think, but Will couldn’t remember his father ever revealing to him what he did besides taking him on trips.

Will frowned to himself.  In thinking about the doctor, he realized he hadn’t seen the man eat anything since they arrived at his house. Only the copious amounts of empty tea wrappers that always either littered the counter or floor indicated he moved about sometimes.

Will worried a bit because he also didn’t hear or see Warthrop take the stairs to his bedroom, so he wasn't sure he was even sleeping. The few glimpses of the doctor revealed a scrawnier and unkempt figure than a few days ago, shirtsleeves still rolled as before but now more stained and wrinkled. His lanky hair hung in his eyes and his stubble was now more pronounced, cloaking his ragged jaw.

Something ached inside of Will and he wondered if the man was ill; his father looked similar when he had arrived home after his final trip with the doctor. But Will was only a child: he didn't know what to make of it.

He figured that Dr Warthrop was doing his best and understood what he needed, something grown-ups always said when he worried, so he did not seek him out. But that did not prevent the seed of concern from being tucked delicately between his ribs.

The start of the weekend hadn’t brought out Dr Warthrop from his basement or whatever room he currently resided in, and Will ate his breakfast alone once again. He was tired of cereal so he had whipped himself a simple meal of scrambled eggs and toast using some pans and utensils he found scrounging around the kitchen cabinets. The doctor had a good assortment of fine sturdy kitchenware but like the rest of the house, it seemed unused and forgotten.

A sharp precise knock penetrated the stagnant household and Will shot up in surprise, eggs flying off his plate.

"The door, Will Henry! Answer the door!" erupted the booming voice of the doctor from the closed basement door, startling him even further and adding more mess to the table.

"Coming!" Will shouted, a mixture of relief and fear. He didn't know who’d be at the door but at the same time, he was glad that the doctor sounded well enough to yell that loud so early in the morning.

Will was too short to check through the peephole and the narrow glass panels of the vestibule were distorted and frosted, only lending a shadowy presence to whomever occupied the stoop. Taking a deep breath, Will undid the lock and opened the door.

"Ah! Will! There you are!" greeted Officer Morgan, smiling as he turned around from surveying Warthrop's overgrown and weedy lawn. "You are looking very well today—and with some new clothes too!" The policeman seemed genuinely surprised that Will actually had some clothes to wear, as if he expected him to be wearing the exact same outfit he left with four days ago.

"Yes, sir. I was just eating breakfast."

Morgan looked a bit sheepish for a moment, shifting a boxy bundle under his arm. For Will, it was strange seeing the policeman in civilian clothing, wearing a simple khaki trouser and button-down.

"Yes well, I have come to give Pellinore the paperwork I promised and uhh...this." He jostled the bundle. "The missus would not hear of me leaving home without it, so I hope you don't mind fish."

Will shook his head and moved aside to let Morgan into the house, who immediately kicked off his loafers and moved them out of the way.

"Where's Pellinore?" he asked as he scanned the hallway, now freed from its dusty overlay.

"He's in the basement."

Morgan grimaced at that but waited for Will to direct him to the kitchen where he set down the parcel on the still paper-strewn tabletop. Will began picking up bits of egg and sticking them back on his plate.

"Still bogged down as ever with the research, I see," he murmured to himself. He plucked at his bushy moustache and rubbed vigorously at his right shoulder.

The basement door exploded behind the pair, expelling a frazzled Dr Warthrop. "Will Henry! Who the devil did you let—"

Warthrop drew taut at the two pairs of bewildered eyes fixed upon him. He patted at his clothes distractedly.

"Ah, yes. Oh. Good morning to you, Robert," he replied gruffly.

Robert kept staring at his friend with unblinking eyes, stunned speechless by the drastic change in his appearance. Unlike the station visit, Warthrop was now as bedraggled and worn as the child he had picked up, except more dirty, unshaven and a tad bit fragrant.

Warthrop shook out his overgrown mop from his eyes and glared at this friend.

"Have you simply come here to stare at me in my own house?" he said crossly. "I have better things to do than to be ogled at like a lion in a zoo."

Robert started out of his stupor and frowned at Warthrop's tone. "Don't tell me you've already forgotten why I'm even here?"

"Yes yes, the paperwork. I am not senile, Robert," dismissed Warthrop, making his way to the hallway watercloset. "Just arrange it so we can go over it and be back to our own businesses."

The door clicked shut and Robert grumbled, making room on Pellinore's table top so he could fan the paperwork out. Will removed his plate to the counter.

"I don't know how you manage to live with him, Will," huffed Morgan, laying the final pad of papers at the end of his line. The bag was still bulky and Robert promptly removed its contents, revealing a large Tupperware.

"Here, Will, put this in the fridge. Sadako would not let me go until she put aside some of our lunch for today for you both. I swear that wife of mine would feed every hungry person on this planet if someone let her loose to do it."

He sighed, but still smiled at the thought. "She really enjoys cooking—went to school for it and everything. So if you can, she'd love to hear your opinion on it, Will. Not like she's ever going to get one out of Warthrop." He shrugged and passed it off to Will, who stuck it in the sparse fridge.

"Thank you, sir. My dad liked fishing, so we'd sometimes have it for dinner too."

Morgan leaned one hand on the table, the other fiddling with the corners of the paperwork. His mouth worked a bit before he replied, "You're a good kid, Will. I really wished this had never happened."

His fingers folded and unfolded the corners before closing into a fist.

"God damn it. It isn't fair that something like this had to befall you and your parents. But what is, _is_. I promise you, Will, that I will do everything in my power to help you." Though it was addressed to the boy hovering at the opposite end of the table, it sounded like he was saying it more to himself.

Warthrop came striding into the kitchen, face damp where he had washed it, but it did nothing to mitigate the rust-colored stains splattered upon his shirt-front nor the greasy marks upon his trousers.

Robert moved to the side to allow Pellinore to bend over and examine what he had brought. His eyebrow rose at all the paperwork that now sat over his own.

"This is all of it?"

"What did you expect? This is for fostering a child, not housing some pet. There are many legalities that must be accounted for."

Warthrop did not look pleased.

"What's this? A  _'Foster Home Study'_? What sort of nonsense did you bring into my house?" Warthrop read the document, looking affronted. "This is all stuff you know, Robert! My education, my employment—all of it background information that I know the police department has on file! This is absolutely superfluous." He snorted and put it down.

"It’s unavoidable Warthrop. You know this with your own line of work," he emphasized, eyes narrowing. "You know as well as I do how the bureaucracy machine works, and you’ll have to play it if you wish to care for William!"

Both men looked at Will Henry, who became anxious under their scrutiny. Then they turned back to continue their discussion on the legal paperwork involving him staying at the doctor's house. Yet it did not alleviate the knot that settled in Will.

The men muttered and bickered between themselves, their voices escalating slightly when Morgan pointed out legal jargon that left Warthrop snorting in disgust or sighing in dismay. The doctor yanked back Will’s seat and began filling out the paperwork, with Morgan interjecting some instruction here and there.

Not knowing what to do and feeling like he was intruding upon some adult business that did not concern him, Will attempted to sneak out of the kitchen.

"Will Henry, where are you going?"

Will froze, caught by the doctor's sharp tone and a single eye rooting him to the spot.

"Um, I didn't want to bother you, since you’re busy."

Warthrop hunched over his paperwork again. "Can you prepare some tea then, Will Henry?"

Morgan looked as if he wanted to cuff Warthrop over the head.

"Yes, sir."

Thin fingers drummed the air. "Well then. Snap to, Will Henry."

Will shuffled back to the counter, though Morgan's face seemed positively thunderous. But he said nothing, deciding instead to burn a hole through the top of the doctor's head.

Will prepared the tea how his mother taught him though she frequently enjoyed loose leaf tea rather than the bagged kind. The boy was exceedingly pleased to find during his breakfast hunt for a frying pan that not only did the doctor have a copper kettle, but a raku fired tea pot as well. It was a simple black glaze fire with little bursts of green and Will thought it very apt.

He cleansed the pot with cold water, then once again with boiling water from the kettle. He filled it to the brim with the hot water and the Darjeeling tea bags. After counting precisely two minutes, Will removed the bags, pinching them and tossing them in the trash.

Not sure exactly how the doctor took his tea, Will turned around to ask.

"Ah, cream and one sugar."

"Mr. Morgan?"

The man looked up from where he hung over Warthrop's shoulder, looking torn.

"Same," he replied.

So Will prepared three cups and passed them to their respective persons.

"Thank you, Will," murmured Morgan, holding the cup with both hands.

Warthrop said nothing, but took the cup and sipped it. He held the cup for a moment, eyes affixed to the paperwork before taking another sip again, more fully this time.

"This is acceptable, Will Henry. Where did you learn how to properly make tea?" His eyes flicked up from the papers.

"My mother." Will played with the handle of his own cup, pleased that the doctor was enjoying his tea.

Warthrop grunted, took another long sip and resumed filling out the documents, setting the now empty mug aside. Robert did the same and looking over Warthrop, stated that Will could go.

"The boy stays," Warthrop interjected sharply, without looking up or pausing in his messy dictation.

"God Pellinore, there is no reason for the boy to stay! He looks half-bored! Just let him play outside or something."

The doctor glowered up at his friend. "I am currently filling out a mountain of legal paperwork regarding this child's continuing residence in my home; of course he needs to stay. This concerns him! And if you weren't currently standing here in my kitchen as a guest that had to traverse outside, I would prescribe for you to have your eyes checked as it was and is still currently raining outside. As you so eloquently put it, Will Henry cannot _'play outside or something'_."

Robert grew red with his friend’s scolding. He crossed his arms and marched to the sink, reining in his temper and looking fixedly out the small curtained window.

Will trudged back to the table, mug in hand and stood by the doctor's side where Morgan was moments before. The doctor had resumed his work, flipping to the next page and began filling out more of the empty boxes with a tight and slanting scrawl. The doctor's shoulders eased as Will Henry remained at his side, and he finished the last section of the document with a narrow distinctive signature.

"I have completed the foster care documents, Robert," he stated, tossing it to the side. "Now will you care to enlighten me about this large official packet and this other bundle of paperwork?"

Warthrop grabbed the nearest one, which was the bundle, and began flipping through it. His eyebrows shot up, disappearing behind his tangled hair.

"What the devil is this? Why do I need this information?" The doctor shook the packet at his friend, who turned to frown at him.

"That's school information, Pellinore."

"I can see that, but what use do I have for such things? Bus schedule? School directory? I am not sure how addled your higher functional thinking process has been of lately, Robert, but I can assure you this has no bearing upon our situation."

The policeman’s persona emerged, Robert's countenance looking like he would very much like to throttle some sense into Pellinore.

"No," he bit out between clenched teeth, "but Will needs it, since he goes to that school."

Pellinore looked taken aback at that, eyes wide. "I thought of teaching him here. What can public school provide that I cannot? Why, I have a more advanced degree than most of those educators there!" he exclaimed.

Robert lost it.

"No, you can’t! You aren't even considering full adoption of the boy! His situation is only temporary! The only reason he's here now is he needs a sense of normalcy and tie to his previous life! He needs to go back to his regular schooling—even you must see that!" fumed Morgan, rounding on his friend.

Warthrop sat ramrod straight, brows drawn as he stared up at Morgan bearing down on his personal space. But Robert would not relent, huge eyes burning with fury at Warthrop's selfish obtuseness. Pellinore held his gaze for a moment, before grumbling and snapping his head away.

"Fine. The child shall remain in your public school system. If James saw it fit to educate his child, I shall defer to his judgement at least in this matter." The papers fell limp in his hands.

Robert let out an exasperated breath and threw his hand into his receding hair. "This is making me thankful I had the foresight to prepare all his school details beforehand," stated Morgan, dragging his hand over his face. "He can return to school this Monday; I've prepared it all with his elementary school and informed the necessary staff since I know the principal there personally. The bus for Will leaves at the end of the block on the corner of Harrington and Cordial. The Stinnetts will be there."

Morgan glanced over at Will. "Do you know the Stinnetts?"

Will shook his head. "We went to their church but I don't know them at all."

"They are good people so if you need help, you can always ask them, Will."

"Thank you, sir."

Warthrop cut in, grabbing the last packet of papers. "Robert, you still haven't explained this."

Morgan fixed Warthrop with an incredulous look.

"Do I really need to? Or have you forgotten how to read?"

"Of course I can read, Robert! I find it highly insulting that you are insinuating I cannot," the doctor snapped. "I am just trying to grasp why you brought adoption papers over, if you even said yourself that Will Henry's stay in this household is temporary."

Morgan snatched his bag, glowering at his long-time friend.

"Call it wishful thinking. Or being prepared," he bit out. "It is up to you, Warthrop, which it will be."

He whirled away from the man, who looked back down at the adoption papers in his hands. Morgan came over to Will and gave him a soft ruffle of his hair. He paused then gave him a hug as well.

"You take care Will, ok? Sadako will stop by on Sunday with new school supplies for you. She didn't want you to start back at school without having at least that. Like I said, once she gets started there's no stopping her."

Morgan smiled slightly. Then he bid them both goodbye before excusing himself.

Once the door clicked shut, Will went to lock it. When he returned, Warthrop had not moved an inch. The paperwork was still clasped in one hand upon the same page. His exhausted head was held up by the other, fingers rooted through his hair.

"Sir?" Will came to the doctor's side.

The doctor blinked rapidly and shook himself out of his reverie.

"Yes, what is it Will Henry?" Dark eyes turned towards the small boy, who found his reflection trapped within their shining depths.

"Is there anything I can do?"

The eyes closed with a sigh. Papers drifted back upon the table and the doctor fell back into his ladder-back chair.

"There is, Will Henry," he said eyes cracking open slightly, regarding the ceiling. "Could you perhaps make another pot of that tea?"

Nodding, Will made a fresh pot for the doctor and himself. He refilled Warthrop’s empty mug, which he instantly took in both hands.

"Nothing is more satisfying than a conclusion, Will Henry. Save perhaps a strong cup of Darjeeling," commented Warthrop, taking a sip. "But a scone or two makes it all the more enjoyable."

A subtle light danced in his eyes as he regarded the child. "Could you pull out the white bag from the fridge and heat some?"

Two raspberry scones rolled out onto a plate and Will heated them for a few seconds in the microwave. Then he passed them to the doctor who immediately took one with a small bite.

"Here, try one. These are quite good." He pushed the plate towards the boy.

Tentatively, Will took the remaining pastry and took a bite. As the doctor said, it was good. Drizzle pattering gently at the windows, both the man and the child ate and drank their late morning repast in silence, the adoption papers strewn across his research.

 

***

 

 


	5. Exhaustion

It was still dark when Will left for the bus stop. Bits of the oncoming dawn were trapped in-between the sprawling limbs of the surrounding forest like pale s moths. Even with spring around the corner, the night still had a stranglehold on the daylight. A few lampposts flickered, eager to retire for the day.

Puffs of breath wreathed around Will's flushed countenance, dissipating as he jogged towards the corner of Harrington and Cordial. Feet crunched through the dew-laden lawns as the street sign peeked into view.

Once again, Will was afraid. This was his first day back and he didn't know how his friends would treat him after being gone for a week or how they would react to his parents being gone. He didn't even know if this was the right stop or if the Stinnett children would even be there. There were too many uncertain variables and it terrified Will that he might mess up.

Will dragged the sleeves of his overly large hoodie past his hands, bundling it around his wrists. Though warm and comfortable, Will was embarrassed that he had to wear something so huge. The doctor had forgotten to get him a new jacket, so he had to make due with one of his. It had burnt edges to it too, as if it once had caught on fire. On the front was a large pair of staring green eyes proclaiming  _'The Cure'_ and it gave Will the faint impression that the doctor was still watching him somehow.

The weekend had flown by with the same routine as before. Will didn’t see the doctor more than a handful of times and Will was starting to believe that bathing was also on the list of things that the doctor forgot how to do. Will too, started to notice that supplies were beginning to dwindle and he started to keep a mental list on what needed replenishing: toothpaste, milk, shampoo, flour. Soon the list expanded onto paper, and that didn’t include the things Will wasn’t sure about.

The boy was glad and relieved that he remembered his lunch number as he was way too nervous to attempt breakfast or even make his own lunch that morning. Not that was enough to make anything substantial with anyway.

Will trudged to the bus stop and found devoid of any other kids. His heart started pounding and he wrung his hoodie. He quickly reminded himself that just because there weren’t any kids yet, didn't mean he was at the wrong spot. He did wake up early after all.

Before, his mother would always wake him up for school with a laughing smile, especially if he begged for another five minutes. Even better was that if his father was home as he'd be there too; the doctor always required him as early as possible. Mornings before school were always filled with warmth and a hearty homemade breakfast, the scents of which always fetched Will from bed as effectively as his father’s calls. Afterwards either his mother or father would walk him to the bus stop with a pat and an heartfelt wish for him to do well at school.

But Will had to wake that morning by himself in the cold attic bedroom filled only with old furniture drenched in shadows and the musty remnants of dust and cobwebs. Unlike any of the other rooms, the attic had nothing to it—no little figurines or thumbed-through books, no pots of long-dead plants or even some old clothing tucked away in the single dresser. Will thought it was strange that the attic had all the beginnings of a bedroom rather than being used for storage, but with all the years of dust he had expelled through its lonely window, Will could see that no one had been there for years.

When Will finished checking his backpack for the third time, he wasn’t sure if the doctor would resume that role of waking him as he had not uttered a word about school. So Will had dug around and found an old clock in one of the bedrooms, the kind he only ever saw on Saturday morning cartoons with the alarm bells and tiny feet. It was dented as if it been dropped or flung around many times.

The alarm worked exceedingly _too_ well.

Will flew out of bed at its shrill heart-stopping screech and landed in a tangled heap of limbs and blanket. His hands shook too much to push the button to shut it off, so he ended up dropping the screeching thing. Luckily that managed to do the trick, and it took Will more than a few minutes to ease the frenetic ringing that scampered under his skin.  

The rest of the morning proceeded sluggishly and with growing dismay when he didn't see Warthrop. Not even when he dared to linger as long as he could before leaving, just to get a single goodbye or wave. Oh, he knew it probably wouldn’t be the sweeping hugs or the paternal ruffle his father always gave, but even if was a simple ‘have a good day at school’ or even an off-handed ‘bye’, it was all he wanted.

Despite him knowing deep-down it was foolish thinking since the man was someone he barely knew, it still hurt Will that the doctor neglected something so little yet so important for him.

Will sat on the curb wrapping his arms around his knees and waited and tried not to think about it anymore.

An effusing glow had brightened the stagnant treeline when a stampede of footsteps erupted to Will’s left.

"C'mon Malachi! You’re soooo slow!" whined a girl's voice.

"I’m not slow, Lizzy! You’re just being a butt, leaving us behind!"

"Ooooh, I'm telling mom you said bad words!"

There was a strangled noise chorused by squeaky "Ohhhh! Malachi, you in trouble! That’s bad!"

The older voice shouted, "It’s not a bad word you guys! We all have butts!"

Will looked up, goggle-eyed at the party of three that came up the cracked sidewalk.

The first girl, adorned with a flouncy ribbon dress and a single thick braid, stuck her tongue out at her older brother and flipped her hair. She seemed familiar to Will and he wondered if he met her before at school.

She stamped her feet and with an exaggerated twirl, and rejoined with a teasing quirk to her lips, "I'm telling mom that you think about butts."

The older boy slapped a hand to his face, while a small red-haired girl tugged incessantly on his other one.

"Malachi, is that true? Is it? Huh? Why, Malachi? That's gross!" Her bright green eyes looked beseechingly up at her brother, who refused to look at either of his sisters.

"I don’t think about butts, ok? It’s a phrase! A thing you say!" The older boy flushed scarlet as he said it, and his sisters laughed at his distress and danced around him, furthering the blush on his dark cheeks.

"It's ok, Malachi! We won't tell mom! It'll be our little secret!" exclaimed the older sister.

Malachi threw his hands into this pitch-black hair with an exasperated moan.

"It's too early for this, you guys," he cried. "Go talk about your boy bands or something." He dragged his hands down his face.

"Ew, gross Malachi. One day your face is gonna stick like that and then how you gonna get a girl?" huffed his sister, throwing off her backpack on the ground near Will.

Malachi just moaned more pitifully than before as the younger sister bounced around him and threw her bag down as well.

Suddenly she drew back, startled, and began thrusting a chubby finger in Will's face. Alarmed, Will scooted out of range from her jabbing finger lest he be poked in the eye.

"Oh! OH! You’re a new kid!! Hello!" She grinned, all freckles and missing teeth.

"Uh, hello—"

"Hi! My name is Sarah!" She thrust her sort-of dirty hand at him. It looked like it once attempted to be clean.

Not knowing what to do, Will took her hand and she immediately shook it roughly, like an over-enthused kid with a goldfish bag.

"Daddy says it's good manners to shake hands, so there you go!"

She broke off with a snap and ran over to her brother. She proceeded to point at Will some more and started to drag her brother over, giving Will the sense of being some sideshow attraction to their day. The older sister however, finally noticed Will from where she had been digging through her backpack.

"Oh hey, I know you. I've seen you sometimes though you’re always kinda quiet. I'm Elizabeth, but you better call me Lizzy." Her eyes narrowed at Will and he swallowed. "There's another Elizabeth in our hall and I’m gonna get mad if you call me by _her_ name." She scowled, nose wrinkling and began thumbing through her Lisa Frank binder.

"Uh ok, thank you, Lizzy."

She looked at him funny. "Why you thanking me for, shorty?"

Will scrunched his face. "For telling me your name?"

"Why you telling me that like it's some question? What? You not sure? Anyway I need to find my picture to show Jolyne on the bus, so if you'll excuse me..."

She snagged her stuff and moved a little up the way. She plopped down gracefully on the curb, her dress fluttering. Having snagged Malachi's attention, Sarah then joined her as well, her bright yellow sweater a sunny addition to Lizzy's sky blue one.

Malachi took Lizzy's vacated spot next to Will and eased himself down, not as awake as his boisterous sisters. He rubbed at his eyes, yawned and turned towards Will with a smile.

"Hey, how are you? I'm Malachi. Those two over there are my sisters, but I guess you already figured that out," he explained, arms dangling between his long legs. "I wish I could tell you that they aren't always like this, but then I'd be lying and that's bad." He laughed and rubbed at his hair, the tight curls springing back once he was finished.

During the whole encounter, Will had remained bunched in on himself, especially when bombarded with the exuberance of the two girls. However, Malachi's easy-going demeanor allowed Will to unfurl himself somewhat, letting his feet rest on the asphalt and bringing his hands together in his lap.

"Lizzy said she seen you before, so I'm guessing you just moved houses or something?" Sky blue eyes regarded him with friendly interest.

"Yes, I've always gone to Stearling Heights from my old house but now...now I'm here." Will fiddled with the frayed hoodie strings of his sweat jacket.

"Oh! So what's your name then? And what grade are you in? I'm in high school right now. Scary isn't it?" He laughed. "But if you need anything, I can help you."

"Well, I'm in fifth grade right now..."

"Excellent! You’re in the same grade as Lizzy! She's actually supposed to be one grade higher, but don't ever mention that unless you want her beating you with that horrible binder of hers."

"I heard that, Malachi!" yelled Lizzy. "Don't think I won't give you more stickers! It’s your binder that stinks!"

Malachi made a horrified face at that and leaned in closer to Will. "I thought she used all those up the last time I made fun of her obsession with those rainbow animals. How many does she even have?" Malachi waggled his brows which issued a small giggle from Will.

"Seriously though, between me and you, I spent all night picking off unicorns and pandas from my binders. It was dreadful." He shuddered and then grinned.

"You haven't told me your name yet though."

"Oh, sorry. I'm Will. Will Henry."

Something passed over Malachi's face, a softening of those opal eyes, and he scooted closer to Will.

"Well Will, I am glad you’re here at our bus stop because you seem like a cool guy. And it's neat because next year, you and Lizzy will be going to my school with me! Don't worry though, 6th through 8th grade is in a different part of the school than us big kids. But that means I get to help you more later! Though I don't think Lizzy would like that too much. She thinks I make all the cute boys run away." He patted his lean face. "I don't think I'm that scary! How about you?"

Malachi smushed his face when Will looked up at him, and he couldn't help but laugh.

"N-no, not at all." Will snorted and wiped his nose. "I don't think anyone could be scarier than the doctor."

Malachi's face hardened at that.

"Is he nice though?"

"What?"

Malachi rubbed the back of his neck. "Sorry, I didn't mention...my parents know what happened." He turned back, sympathy swimming upon his face. "They’re very worried about you, but I'm glad that I was able to meet you. Officer Morgan said you'd be here with us."

Will huddled back on himself, unwilling to talk about it. He didn’t want to be reminded of things that always found him when he was alone.

"Hey. I didn't mean to make you remember those things. I'm sorry," tried Malachi but his sister whapped him over the head.

"Hey, bus is coming! What did you do? Did you make him cry, Malachi? Why you always so mean?" She glowered at him hands on her round hips, backpack slung over her shoulder and rolled paper in hand. She smacked him again with it.

"Hey! I apologized all right?! Stop hitting me with your Justin pic! I don't want him touching me!"

She gasped. "How dare you! I bet you secretly like him too. That's why you know it's a picture of Justin! You were sneaking peeks!"

Malachi got to his feet and began helping Sarah put on her backpack.

"No, Lizzy," he grouched. "I only know because you were kissing it in your room when I tried to find you for dinner last night!"

Lizzy sputtered, turning red. "Nuh uh! I wasn't doing that!"

Malachi stood on the sidewalk waiting for the bus. Will took his place a few feet away, since Malachi was being swarmed around by the two girls dancing around him and chattering away like pigeons honing in on a chunk of bread.

The bus ride was uneventful and Will spent it with his face pressed up against the condensing window, idly scribbling away the fog so he could see outside. Even on the bus, the two girls would not cease talking, giggling with each other over the glossy picture.

As more children hopped on the bus, it become much more animated, and Will became more and more anxious and tired. He was happy that he found the right bus stop and that the Stinnetts were as nice as Mr Morgan said they would be, but Will was extremely upset that now people already knew of his parents' deaths.

He didn't want that changing what his friends thought about him, especially his baseball ones; they were all excited to be trying out for the school team soon. It was something they have been looking forward to since they were all to be in 6th grade next year and it would be a long but fun three years of middle school baseball.

But now his world had been completely upended. Even basic tasks such as sleeping and eating were thrown into disarray and it led to exhausted nights trying to navigate the new situation he'd been thrust in.  Will had felt so alone after being picked up and brought to the police station but nothing prepared him for the loneliness that came with living with someone that always seemed to forget you existed in the first place.

The secondary school children were let off first, since their school was on the right side of the road, before the bus turned left and pulled into Stearling Heights. Will waited for everyone else to exit before doing so himself.  He didn't feel like eating or finding his friends or hanging with the Stinnett girls, so he just trudged to his classroom. Luckily his teacher was already there and he started getting ready for class.

He began filling his desk full of the new supplies he got from Mrs. Morgan. She had been a very bubbly lady, with a pretty bob held by pink hairclips, and gushed when Will handed back her Tupperware with his sincere compliments on her cooking. He felt relief and gratitude at having school supplies to take with him; he didn't want to feel strange and weird at having to ask the teacher or the other kids for pencils and paper.

"Will, is that you?"

The boy turned around from where he stashed his new backpack in his cubby. "Yes ma'am, I'm just a bit early," he said.

"Yes, you are. Bless your heart," said his teacher, Mrs Feynman. "Is there anything I can do for you?"

For some reason, her overly cheery tone grated upon Will. He just wanted to get to work.

"Can I have the stuff I missed?"

She looked up from her desk in mild surprise before fluttering a delicate hand at him.

"Oh Will, you won't have to do that! It wasn't anything you needed for the test and given what happened, I'll exempt you from those assignments. I don't want you to fall behind trying to make up work, ok?" She smiled brightly at Will before resuming work at her tidy desk.

Will merely shrugged and began rummaging through his desk to see what was left there.

There were some stubby pencils, a half-filled colored pencil spacekeeper, and a paperback that his mother gave him for the AR tests, since he had wanted that book but it was already checked out. But Will's hand shook as he unearthed his composition journal. He thought he brought it home to work in since he was sure that there was an assignment for it last week. He couldn't remember anymore.

Flipping it open, he saw all his daily journals, one full page for each day and on the opposite side a small doodle or diagram. Some were cramped at the bottom where he had started to run out of space and tried to fit his thoughts all in.

Other kids began filing in and getting ready, but Will couldn't help reading such mundane and foreign thoughts: how happy he was to pass his science test, catching a fly ball despite the flurry outside, his mother. His eyes burned as he caught glimpses of his notes regarding his fear for his father's condition and at the upbeat tone he tried hard to maintain. He shut the journal and threw it back into his desk.

The rest of the day passed by in a syrupy blur. Conversation buzzed around him, the excitement and cheeriness of everyone else a strident and choking perfume. Will only wanted to work; it was the only thing able to keep him afloat. He tackled everything the teacher handed to the class but still he struggled. Words blurred if he stared at it too long, and since he didn't want to talk to anyone, he did not ask for help.

Lunch and recess further twisted the knot in his gut as he tried to avoid people the best he could. But they still sought him out anyway, trying to pull him into normal conversation about school or asking where he’d been. Will kept his answers short and stilted, hoping they'd leave him alone.

Recess was similar; his baseball friends found him and dragged him out to the field, exclaiming that it hadn’t been the same without him. The self-appointed captain of their little ragtag group nodded vigorously, thrust a tattered mitt into Will's hands and asked him to catch their farthest throws.

By the time school was over, Will was tremendously exhausted, dragging his feet to the correct school bus, only after panicking for a moment when he couldn’t remember the bus number. However, a kind bus monitor pointed him to the correct one. Malachi was already on it and since his sisters had not arrived yet, he happily invited Will over. Though seeing his expression, Malachi only asked Will about his day and kept the conversation light.

They got off together, the sun now shining dully in the blanketed sky despite it being mid-afternoon and saw each other off. Lizzy and Sarah flounced home without Malachi, upset that he kicked them out of his seat for Will but Malachi reassured him that they were madder at him for not asking or telling them first. Will thanked him and left with a half-hearted wave.

He made back to Harrington Lane, marching through the brown weeds and past the mud-splattered Daytona. The weight of his books pulled at his shoulders as he trudged up the front steps with a wince. Back aching and feet tired, Will was ready to dump his belongings inside as he twisted the handle.

It came loose, door creaking open to Will's surprise. He had no keys, so he couldn't lock the door before he left for school. His father always made sure to lock the door to keep out intruders and now finding the doctor's home unlocked, Will felt a surge of anxiety. What if someone had broken in?

Will eased the door open, saturating the hallway with a listless honey glow. Dust danced in the empty space, flitting in and out of the intruding light. Breathing shallowly, Will examined the vestibule but nothing seemed amiss.

He took a tentative step inside, peeking behind the door to the fully open study. He saw nothing, but a few stacks of books and folders. He scanned the stairs and peered into the gloom at the end of the hallway. But it was empty.

Scooting quietly around the front door, he closed it as softly as he could and it shut without a sound.

Will listened for any sort of noise that would reveal whether someone was moving about the house. He heard none, and felt a little calmer. If someone had broken in, he was sure they wouldn't be super quiet about it.

He padded softly down the hall, seeing no one in the parlor or the dining room. The library door was shut and poking his head into the kitchen revealed nothing save some mugs left out and the paper pile once again expanding onto the floor. The sharp tang of old tea had returned, begging to be tackled vigorously with soap and a sponge.

Will sighed but then stopped; he forgot to lock the door.

So he returned and snapped the deadbolt into place with a resounding  _CLICK!_

All of a sudden, a door slammed open upstairs and footsteps pounded overhead.

Will jerked around, smacking against the door, heart in this mouth. His hands broke into a sweat.

Frantic steps rounded the corner and began stomping down the stairs.

Will's eyes bulged a figure burst into view.

There, upon the landing atop the first set of stairs, stood Dr Pellinore Warthrop, wild hair sticking out to one side and half stuck to his sunken and pale cheeks. His eyes mimicked Will's, wide in their sockets.

Both were breathing harshly, with Will flush against the door and Warthrop hanging over the step, feet gripping the precipice as if he was about to topple over.

"Will Henry?"

"I'm home, sir," croaked Will, fixated on the figure upon the steps.

The man flew down the stairs, skidding to a halt in front of the boy, his sheer proximity closing the boy in on all sides. The doctor smelled funny and stale, and a peculiar energy emanated from his vibrating form.

"Where the devil have you been, Will Henry?" He sounded confused, with an undercurrent of something Will could not identify.

"I was at school, Dr Warthrop.”

Suddenly all the energy gushed out of Warthrop and he slumped. Then he straightened up again.

"Oh yes, school. It seemed to have slipped my mind. With the treatise and all, yes." He coughed, and would not look at Will.

Will looked up at the doctor as his thin lips pulled into a frown. Two spots of color dusted his cheeks. The doctor spotted Will watching him and he scowled.

"Well, Will? Are you going to keep standing there?"

"No, sir," said Will, averting his gaze. "I'm about to go do my homework."

Pellinore hummed in his throat and promptly left towards the kitchen.

"I will require a pot of tea Will Henry. Like you, I have work to be done that your unannounced absence had disrupted."

Will followed him into the kitchen, slinging his backpack over one of the chairs. He caught a final glimpse of Warthrop before he descended into the brightly lit basement. The doctor had not shut the door.

Ever since coming to live at the strange house upon Harrington Lane, Will harbored an idle, yet powerful curiosity to what exactly his father and the doctor did—the answer to which lay in the basement. He wasn’t allowed down there, and it was the only room that he had no inkling to what it contained.

Taking furtive glances towards the open door every once in a while, Will made the tea and while it was brewing, he cleared himself a spot at the kitchen table for his work.

Once the tea was ready, he called for the doctor and sat down. He pulled free his homework and textbooks, but it was no use. The obscenely white glow in the soft light of the rest of the house was like a tantalizing beacon, beckoning him to take a look.

Will called again for the doctor but hearing no response, he grabbed Warthrop's cup and went to the basement door. Will stood on the top step, allowing his eyes to adjust to the bleached space below. Like the dazzling contents of Pandora ’s Box, the contents revealed themselves to his hungry gaze.

The basement steps were of varnished wood, all sealed from moisture and stains, with only the worn divots in each step belying the time worn into them. Every inch of the floor and walls were whitewashed to a dazzling brilliance, sterile and clean. Though Will couldn't see much besides that and a sliver of stainless steel countertop, it reminded him eerily of one of the doctor's labs he had to sit in when he got really ill from pneumonia one year.

Though strange, it was also reassuring to realize that Dr Warthrop was indeed a doctor, as his father always stated, even if it was confusing. Why he didn't work at a hospital but instead in a basement? Maybe he was like one of those old-timey doctors that paid house calls?

Will knocked on the basement door and called out to him below. "Dr Warthrop? Your tea is ready."

There was the sound of something clattering to the floor followed by an incoherent shout. The man appeared at the bottom of the stairs with an exasperated frown.

"Must you disrupt my work, Will Henry?"

"No sir, but you asked for tea and I didn't think you'd like it cold."

Warthrop started up the stairs and Will moved out of the way to let him pass.

"Right you are Will Henry," he said, snatching the cup from Will’s hands and stomped back down into his basement lair without a second glance.

Will stood there for a second but with no further greeting or response from the man, he just returned back to his homework in silence.

 

***

 

The night shattered as Will exploded from the bed, fending off the trailing remnants of a nightmare. Sweat beaded on his forehead and his nightshirt clung helplessly to his sweat-soaked body. He shivered, grabbing blindly for his quilt.

The frigid winter air snapped at his exposed skin, and he quickly wrapped his quilt around himself, concentrating on the rapid breaths that spilled past his lips. He swallowed, throat hot and scraping.

Thoughts buzzed like flies, popping against his skull and dissipating when he tried to latch onto them. Tears collected on his lashes and rolled down his cheeks. He used his quilt to wipe them away.

He desperately wanted his mother. He wanted her warm embraces before bed, her kisses and smiles that everything would be ok. To be able to work alongside her again, baking and cleaning, and hearing her voice sing softly as she tended to her work.

And he wanted his father with a physical ache that hurt. He never got enough time with him. Never got to go camping in the wilderness or learn to hunt, never had him attend one of his spontaneous games of baseball with his friends, never been on a trip together.

All that was left of his parents was a hat his father got him for hunting. ‘ _One day soon!’_ he had said with a twinkly eye and an ear-splitting grin that left his mother sighing helplessly nearby. She didn’t believe in such a dangerous and violent activity and she scolded him for giving Will such a promise. But his father just smiled apologetically to her and gave him the gift.

But now violence was all that was filled his memories of them.

His mother tackling his father while screaming for him to run.

His father flailing before he threw his wife bodily to the ground.

 _Run._   _Run, Will!_

The gluttonous fire that filled its gaping maw of countless tongues and devoured everything whole. It lashing in anger at his back as Will escaped through the frozen permafrost.

Happy memories...he had so many...

_How come he couldn't remember them?_

Only the twisting memories that tore through him like poison.

Choking sobs where thrust into his arms, leaving Will filled with shame.

_Why was he so weak? How did he not see what could have happened?_

And now he was at the doctor's, the one person his father esteemed and worshipped above all else. No bad word ever fell from his lips about the magnificent Dr Pellinore Warthrop. Through his father, Will had wished one day to work alongside the man, infused with a sense of storybook awe from his tales. Will got his childhood whim granted and here he was at the doctor's side.

But never before had he felt so alone and unwanted.

He cried to himself, hating that he was so pitiful and for feeling relief at being able to let himself be so.

He cried and cried, sobs buried in the damp quilt. Slowly they petered out into choking hiccups. Exhausted and drained of everything inside himself, Will took to staring out his little attic window.

It was extremely late and no stars dotted the pressing darkness. Will sniffed and his ears found comfort in the hush of a world asleep, its tiny branches quivering.

Suddenly, he tensed.

He sat up, alert, fingers pulling tight the confining blanket. Then he heard it.

"Will Henreeeee!"

The boy leapt out of his bed and scrambled down his little ladder, almost tripping over his feet.

Will Henry almost bounded down the stairs but something held him back, telling him to check the doctor's bedroom first. He ran past the opening and rushed to the end of the hall. He skidded to a halt and flung an arm out to catch the open doorjamb.

"Sir!"

"Will Henry?"

The room was dark save a small swatch of light that fell across the bare floor and dwindled to an eddying tide at Will's feet. A shadow shot up from the bed against swatches of umber and pitch. Fabric rustled as the man pulled himself free from the confines of his bed and Will came quietly to his side. The room was stifling despite the cold in the hall.

"I am here, sir," said Will, wringing his hands in his shirt.

Unsure, he hung back while the doctor steadied his breath, arms braced on his thighs. The doctor's head was bowed, gaze fixed on the space between his legs. Will heard him swallow before a trembling hand rubbed at his face. He still did not look up.

"Why are you awake, Will Henry?" he said, voice cracking. He coughed and cleared his throat. "You should be abed. Do you not have school?"

Will shifted on his feet, back against the bleeding wound of illuminated light.

"You needed me, sir."

Warthrop looked up at boy, eyes snatching the tiniest bit of light in the gloom. His throat worked and he lowered his head, looking to the side. His arms hung limply upon his thighs.

"If that is the case," he said softly, "then...you will need to sit."

He nodded to a cushioned chair that resided in the corner. Will followed his gesture and with no further instruction, made his way over to the chair. He picked it up with some difficulty and placed it by the doctor, facing him. Will sat on the edge, legs dangling. He folded his hands in his lap and waited.

The man did not move or say anything for the longest time, just soft breaths that corroded past his slightly open lips. The light bled delicately into the room, lending a static-like quality to the pair as they gently moved through the gloaming.

Will slowly slumped in his chair, exhaustion weighing him down as it pulled at his aching body with sandy tendrils of promised sleep. Just as his eyes drifted shut, the doctor's gravelly voice yanked him back.

"Will Henry, I have not had a chance to say...that is, your father..."

He fumbled with his words. His hands ran through his hair, the thick strands tilled with frustration.

"Your father! I-I..."

He slumped forward again, hands clenching at his pants.

"James was a good and loyal man," he whispered, sounding further away than ever before. He rubbed his eyes, then threw himself on his bed and rolled over facing the wall.

"You need your sleep, Will Henry. I have no more need of your services." The man curled deeper onto himself, one pale hand wrapped tightly against his side.

Will got up out of his chair and left the room, but not without one glance back to the man that had been his father's most beloved of friends.

 

***


	6. The Visitor

Will Henry awoke early that morning for school but it wasn't to the deafening scream of his alarm clock. Instead, Will had awoken to something poking him in the shoulder. Groggily he shifted, rubbing his sleep-deprived eyes in an effort to focus them.

A pair of backlit eyes hovered above his face, staring down on him.

Will froze.

The eyes continued to stare.

"Ah, Will Henry, you are finally awake."

The voice scrambled in his brain for a whole minute before his mind was able to recognize it as the doctor's.

"Y-yes, sir!" Will stammered, flinging the words out.

"Excellent!" cried the doctor, "Come downstairs and quickly! There is something I want to show you." He straightened as much as he could in the tiny attic but his head remained bowed as it brushed against the rafters.

However, Will remained stiff under the covers, gawking at the man hanging over him like some obscure specter.

Warthrop frowned at Will’s lack of action.

"Snap to, Will Henry! I require your services at once! Since you have school, it was necessary to wake you much earlier."

As if on cue, the alarm exploded into an ear-splitting screech, sending Will sprawling over the counterpane and the doctor smacking his head against the ceiling.

"Damn and blast, Will Henry! What the devil is that?" He reached over to the offending object and punched the button on top.

"I thought I disposed of this atrocious device when I was sent to school," said Warthrop, glaring at it before chucking it into a corner. "I shall procure you a less offensive time-keeping apparatus, Will Henry, but for now, snap to!" He shuffled over to the stairs, hunching over as the ceiling sloped and popped back down the trapdoor.

The doctor's footsteps died away, leaving Will to stare blankly at the ceiling for a long moment. If there was one thing he was beginning to rapidly understand, is that there was no pinning down the doctor. He reminded Will of a shadow: right when you thought you understood what made it and how it was shaped, it would change on you, indefinitely and without recourse.

Will rolled out of bed, shoving his chilled body into his clothes. Still cold, Will threw on his baggy sweatshirt, rolled up the sleeves to release his hands and scuttled down the ladder, shutting the trapdoor. He headed downstairs and made his way into the kitchen.

To his surprise, Warthrop was sitting at the little round table, going through the various piles of paperwork and consolidating them into some resemblance of order. Though that meant the entire table was now covered in stacks of paper and nowhere to eat.

"There you are, Will Henry," said the doctor turning in his seat as Will entered, "Put on the kettle and come here immediately! It is most imperative."

Will did so and returned, doctor now standing over his morning's work and stretching out his back.

"As you now reside with me, it is essential you are aware of my requirements for aiding in my research, as your father done before."

"Your research, sir?" asked Will, looking up at the doctor.

Warthrop frowned. "Why yes, Will Henry, my research." He crooked a dark brow. "Whatever did you think I did all day? Your father said you were a sharp lad. I expect to see that from you."

Will dropped his eyes back to the table. "I don’t really know what you do. Father wouldn’t tell me. He told me you did 'great work' and that you were a doctor and a monstrumologist, but that’s it. Mother never would tell me either but she didn't like it so I figured that's why. He did tell me about your guys' travels though, the places you went to, when he came back home.” Will fiddled with a corner of paperwork. “I figured you were kind of like the doctors Mother would take me to."

Dr Warthrop crossed his arms and shifted upon his feet. "Mm, that is most unfortunate, but understandable. Your father kept his promise to keep my work a secret I see, as I wished of him."

He plucked at his lip, arm propped upon the other that hugged his torso. He pulled taut then snapped loose, long arms dangling at his sides.

"As it is, Will Henry, I require a great deal of services in my line of work and I do not need to assume that you have noticed how extensive my work can become." He gestured towards the table. "You shall be my assistant in such matters and seeing as your father was loyal in keeping his word, I shall teach you the necessities of what my work entails.”

He turned, hands folded at his back and addressed the boy in a severe tone, “I am fore and foremost a monstrumologist, a scientist in the field of aberrant biology. I study creatures that prey upon humans."

Startled brown eyes shot straight to the doctor's face. "You mean monsters?"

The doctor fixed him with a cold stare.

"Do not be absurd or obtuse. Monsters do not exist, though some of the more ignorant masses enjoy assigning such a moniker to things that can be explained through natural scientific inquiry and logic. And no, Will Henry, I do not study creatures such as ursines or felines that are known to attack and sometimes eat humans, though entertaining as many people find that egg-headed form of pursuit to be. Humans are not in their natural diet so therefore they are not creatures that prey upon humans."

Warthrop drew up to his full height, arms bracing against his back and he loomed over the boy. His shadow swallowed him whole, entire body backlit with an overwhelming aura.

"I study parasites, creatures both small and large that consume us from within, preying upon our flesh as we live and breathe: worms, amoebas, ectoparasites and protozoa. It is my life's work to research and catalog such aberrant life-forms and to discover all I can about them, from how they consume human flesh to their lifespans within our bodies and the surrounding environment. It was what your father has been assisting me with for his thirteen years of service to me and I expect you to assume his mantle as well."

Dark eyes bore down on the child as he wheeled with the onslaught of information.

Will Henry remembered a morning news story about a boy his age that had a spider that laid eggs in his ear. Just listening to that from his spot in the kitchen caused Will distress and horror that such a thing could happen to someone. And now here was the doctor explaining that not only such things existed naturally on a daily basis, but that he and his father hunted and researched them for a living.

Will felt his stomach churn.

"Well?" The doctor's tone was sharp, demanding an answer.

So Will nodded, not realizing what he was consenting to.

"Follow me," the doctor commanded, shifting on his heel towards the basement. As he descended down the stairs, he called behind him.

"This is my personal laboratory, which you shall never enter unless I give you my express permission to do so. When in use, it needs to be sterile at all times, else it ruins the data as well as puts one at risk for infection."

Will cautiously stepped down the stairs, squinting against the blinding light. Suddenly the boy felt extremely overwhelmed, hands clenching tight around the railing and steps faltering to a stop.

The stark whitewashed walls he glimpsed yesterday were covered floor to ceiling upon the opposite side with thick wooden shelves fitted with glass doors. Upon every inch of the display were jars filled a variety of creatures suspended or crammed tightly in liquid amber. Some contained vertebrates such as snakes and fish, but most housed stringy masses of worms and organs and in some cases: both. The golden solution lent a syrupy glow against the deceased creatures and body parts that were at odds with the rest of the room.

A huge stainless steel table with upraised edges and a drain dominated the center of the basement. Bolted to the floor near it was a glaring lamp that had many separate smaller lamps contained in its massive head, like a lotus seed pod. The doctor adjusted its jointed structure, pulling it upright and tilting the head for a more ambient light.

To Will's right, ensconced between the far wall and the stairwell was a large desk strewn with books, spiral notebooks, a thick leather folio and reams of paperwork. Nailed above the desk was a glass cabinet similar in style to the specimen shelving, but this one contained a haphazard array of books and journals of all sizes, all of which looked more than a century old.

In the back was an 'L' shaped corner desk that looked as if it was plucked straight from a doctor's office, with drawers and a sink flanking it. A box of latex gloves and a glass container of several instruments soaking in alcohol sat upon the countertop along with a microscope and several pieces of labeled glass. A metal wheeled cart stood off to the side, bare and gleaming.

"This is where I work and soon you as well," stated the doctor, jerking the boy from his aghast perusal of the forbidden room.

The doctor paced in front of the specimen cabinet, its eerie amber glow sharping the planes of the doctor's severe demeanor.

"Wha—what kind of things do you do down here?" asked Will tremulously, holding back from taking the final step onto the tiled floor.  Instinctively, he was afraid. He felt that if he took that last step, he'd allow the fantastical to become real; that creatures, only whispered between the pages of books and kept restrained with endless constraints of letters, would be brought to life right before his eyes.

The doctor halted and threw a scathing look at the boy.

"You have a brain, do you not? Or are you merely using that place in-between your ears as a rented space for whatever deigns to take up residence?"

Will flushed, irritated that he just got rebuked for something he genuinely did not know. He hunched his shoulders, too tired to attempt to say protest or refute the doctor’s claim. "Yes, sir," he said.

Warthrop whirled, hands grabbing hold of the indifferent steel.

"Yes, sir? Were you agreeing with me that you have no brain? No organ in which to animate the trivial words that spill forth from your lips like the most dull-witted of persons?"

Tears stabbed at Will's eyes, which he squeezed in his effort not to cry.

"No, sir, I didn't mean that at all!" Anger quivered through his small frame and his too-large sweatjacket fell over his clenched fists. "I just wanted to know what all of this was since you brought me down here to help you!"

Warthrop looked slightly taken back, hands loosening their hold.

"You do not need to get so emotional this early in the morning Will Henry," he chided, arms falling to his side.

Will deflated, exhausted. Desperation to escape the doctor's domain filled him and he wanted to return to school, to the one place where nothing had turned upside-down on him. The one place he could traverse without the fear of tripping a strange man's wrath or to suffer the crushing void of his absence.

"Sorry, sir." Will bowed his head. "I'm sorry, but I need to get going now or I'll miss my bus."

Already the doctor had returned to his desk, back turned to the boy.

"Yes yes, education is of utmost importance. Do not be a disappointment." He made a shooing motion.

Stung by the man’s callousness, Will wanted to stomp up the stairs but he had no energy. So he dragged himself into the kitchen instead. The kettle had been boiling away for quite a while so only enough for a single cup remained. Will wanted to fling it into the sink and have the doctor make his own cup, but he also didn’t want to get into any more trouble.

So he made the doctor's cup and set it aside, checking the clock on the microwave which he had set earlier. He didn't have enough time for breakfast so he just slung on his backpack, grabbed the last remaining packet of cherry poptarts and escaped from the claustrophobic house, flinging himself into the biting embrace of the chilled morning,

For Will, the rest of the week moved like being trapped in a blizzard of images, smeared together as if someone dragged their fingers through wet canvas and distorted the picture painted there. People told him what to do and he followed, putting his body through the motions.

Even though it was only the end of his first week back at school, he felt as if he wasn't grasping any of the information. Everything turned to gibberish; conversation and words and instruction all scrambling together like pudding in his head.

He couldn't even find solace in his journals; once on paper it was as if he didn't even write the words or feel the thoughts himself.  It all seemed fabricated; stories from another boy's life.  There were entries about talking with Malachi and the silly things his sisters would do at the bus stop. Of how many balls he caught and missed during his recess practices. Of things he observed throughout the day. But it never seemed like that stuff even happened to him.

The boy that finished his homework before being directed to transcribe paperwork from an untidy jumble to the creaky laptop. The boy that constantly made enough tea to wonder if a man could subsist solely on that alone. And the boy that fought against vivid memories with only his fists twisting in the quilt as his only defense. Those were the children he recognized, the facets of the boy that Will Henry had come to know in the last two weeks since the fire.

When he had returned home that Monday, the ever-present stacks had remained exactly where they had been the night before, but the dusty laptop had found its way in-between the piles.

Will had actually caught the doctor eating something that particular day when he threw a wrapper into the rubbish bin, before he directed Will over to the laptop. But when Will told him he had homework to do first, he looked offended, as if Will's studies had the audacity to take precedence over his work.

After banishing Will’s backpack to the corner, the doctor instructed him what his duties were as his newly appointed assistant, which was to transform the copious amounts of handwritten notes into organized Word documents.

First Will had to plug in the computer since it wasn't charged. Then he had to ask for the password, which garnered him a blank stare.

"Password, Will Henry?"

"Yes, sir. For your computer."

"For the computer," he echoed.

"Yes, I can't get on because I don't know your password."

The doctor waited for the boy to say more but Will just kept watching the doctor, waiting too.

Warthrop frowned. Then remembering something, he retrieved his wallet from his back pocket, rifling through all the slots before triumphantly removing a ratted and stained slip of folded paper. He tossed it on the keyboard and hovered behind Will, balancing on the balls of his feet.

Will unfurled the worn piece of paper, revealing the doctor's username and password written out in his father's familiar handwriting. The doctor's full name was his username and his occupation the password, which made it easy to remember for Will but difficult to type out, especially when the man was hanging over him. It was easier after it booted up since the desktop was organized stringently according to his father's excellent sense of order.

Excited to see his work once again, the doctor had begun directing Will to open and peruse the various documents, going over in great excruciating detail the various aspects of several of the documents. The jargon, research facts and procedures flew straight over Will's head, leaving him bored and tired. He nodded mutely whenever the doctor paused significantly in his endless lecture, waiting for the boy’s response.

Even though the doctor was finally paying some attention to him, Will felt more like a warm body to listen to him talk his interests at. He had the distinct feeling that if another unfortunate soul was trapped in-between the doctor and his work, they would have not been treated any differently than Will currently was.

When Will had begun to yawn, the doctor frowned at the interruption, and then proceeded to address him on the goals for the rest of the week. By the time he was done, it was late and Will didn’t even get to start his homework. So he ended up falling into his bed an hour before midnight, which thanks to the doctor's piles upon piles of documents and lectures plus his studies, fast became routine.

On Friday, Will was so drained he could barely keep his eyes open in class and he had to beg off playing baseball with his friends, much to their concern and disappointment. Malachi and even his sisters asked after him, wondering if there was anything they could do to make him feel less overwhelmed, but Will shook his head and thanked them for their kindness.

Unlike his old self, Will was desperately looking forward to the weekend just to catch up on his sleep. Even if the doctor pestered him for more typing, at least he'd have time to finish his homework _and_ go to bed on time.

Sneakers scraped against the concrete as Will forced himself to the doctor’s house. He was so tired that he almost missed it as he trudged through the lawn. That is, if he hadn't tripped over his shoes.

He let out a cry and flung his arms out for balance, managing not to topple over in the dry dead grass. When he righted himself, that's when he saw it.

A gleaming black motorcycle.

It was parked alongside the doctor's Daytona, completely at odds with the dented and scuffed matte paint job of the battered two-door vehicle.

Will got to his feet, knocking the grass off his knees. But he couldn’t take his eyes off the motorcycle, arrested by the old-fashioned but well-maintained classic that he remembered seeing from some of his mother's favorite James Dean movies.

What kind of person owned such a bike? And why were they visiting the doctor?

It was tantalizing. The polished chrome winked in the sunlight and the spokes where shiny, arranged in a neat design.

Will couldn't help himself. He wanted a closer look. Throwing a distracted glace to the front door, he picked his way over to the motorcycle.

It was as wonderful as he expected and he bobbed up and down as he inspected every inch of the dazzling machine. The chrome dials perched perfectly on the handlebars, and even the wheels looked new, despite the obvious conclusion that it must’ve been driven there.

The boy was so enthralled that he nearly knocked it over when a silken voice emerged from his right.

"Well well, I see you are positively captivated by shiny objects. Perhaps I should consider using it as bait in the future. When I am in need of capturing a wandering child that is."

Will's hands flew upwards, barely nicking the leather seat, and he let out a strangled gasp. He whirled, hands fleeing to his backpack straps.

"Ah. Move this way, please. Else you will knock my bike over and I fear you shall have to pay recompense," laughed the owner of the voice, who stood a few feet away, leaning lazily on the hood of the doctor's car. One hand held a pair of gleaming metal handles in one hand, agile fingers flipping it back and forth idly.

The man had sparkling teeth that were bright in his slightly tanned face even though he was quite fair, as if he'd been in warmer climes. His flaxen hair curled about his ears and shoulders and lent a feline grace to his figure. A diaphanous moustache adorned his lips, pulled into a disconcerting smile that held a promise—one dictated by your choices on whether it would be a good or bad one.

Despite having obviously come on his motorcycle, everything about him was impeccable from his polished riding boats to his coiffed hair and his crisp outfit, consisting of russet slacks, a cream shirtsleeve and tastefully patterned vest. Coupled with his melodic British accent, he seemed out of place surrounded by the unkempt residence of 425 Harrington Lane.

The man raised a brow at Will's continuous perusal of him.

"And to think I only came here with the intention of breaking in,” he drawled. “Yet here I am being ogled by one of the neighborhood children. How disconcerting." The steel handles clacked in his hand as he continued to flick it back and forth between his fingers.

Will took a step back in alarm. "The door's locked?" he blurted, stating the first thing that came to mind. His eyes widened at his outburst.

The man caught his tool in one fluid motion and cocked his head.

"Whatever do you mean by that query?" he purred with a smile that sent Will’s nerves skittering.

Even if Will ran his utmost, the man would be on him in a heartbeat, his height lending him the advantage. So Will stood his ground, knuckles frozen around his backpack straps.

"The doctor forgets to lock the door, s-sir." Will swallowed, wondering why he just admitted to this stranger that his house is always unlocked, right after he just admitted he was going to break in!

The man's molten grey eyes froze, swirling to black.

"Is that so?" He arched off the hood and strode over to Will. "And how would you know of the good doctor?"

He loomed over the small child, who began trembling, yet did not move an inch. Will's eyes flicked to the man’s hands but they were now empty and hung loose at his sides.

"I live with him, sir."

Whatever it was, the man wasn't expecting that. Will caught a glimpse of his dark eyes widening a fraction before they became shuttered.

"You live with Pellinore?"

Will snapped his head up at the casual use of the doctor's first name. Though adrenaline coursed through his body twisting his muscles to run and escape inside, he did not feel the same level of threat as before. But just barely.

Mouth dry, Will nodded. “Yes sir, I do. I live with him."

The man continued to look down at him like he was some bizarre puzzle he was mentally trying to solve.

"Well...Pellinore would be the last person I would peg on earth to acquire a child," he said, stalking around Will, hand tapping his chin. "Where ever did you come from? Did our friend snag you off the street with a well-stocked trap?"

Feeling exposed to the man's predatory gaze as he circled around him, Will pointedly kept his gaze fixed on a patch of dead grass.

"I-I...my parents are dead. They died...and I live with the doctor now," said Will, breathing shallowly. "My father was friends with the doctor…so he took me in."

At his admission, two polished boots halted in front of him, blocking his view.

"Your father was friends with Dr Warthrop?" The voice did not sound pleased.

Will couldn't feel his hands anymore, squeezing as tight as he could around the straps.

"Yes," he whispered, "He worked for Dr Warthrop. He was his assistant."

"What was your father's name?" The voice was flat.

Will bowed his head and squeezed his eyes shut. "James. James Henry."

There was a long pause.

Uncertain, Will opened his eyes. The figure had not moved. Will craned his head but the man wasn't looking at him anymore.

Instead he was regarding the house, brows furrowed in concentration and chin resting on his hand. The other tapped his waist where it wrapped around his middle.

Will shifted on his feet.

"Do you know him?"

A single eye flicked towards the boy.

"I do know of a Mr Henry. Perhaps he is your father. Or perhaps he is a different Henry altogether."

Will's face fell, suddenly very tired.

"No, I meant...how do you know Dr Warthrop?"

The man turned, regarding the boy with a questioning gaze. Then he spun around, returning back to the garage door.

"He's an old friend," replied the man, off-handedly.

There was a quick flick of his wrist and instantly the two metal handles reappeared in his hand. Another flick and a knife flashed, spinning elegantly atop his fingers before they snatched it in midair.

The man crouched down and began picking the lock on the garage door. He twiddled the knifepoint in the keyhole, slowly twisting and maneuvering the sharp blade. He perked up, leaned in closer, one hand pressed against the door and the other gently working the lock. It clicked and the man smiled.

"Ah, there she goes!" he exclaimed, hopping to his feet. He swept his clothes free of dust, cracked his knuckles and hurled the garage door open with a bang.

"If that doesn't rouse our dear doctor to our presence, then he's either asleep or buried in work. Which being Pellinore, is quite likely in either case."

The man strode back to his motorcycle where Will had remained, watching the man break into the doctor's garage with horrified fascination.

"Why didn't you just knock if you wanted to get the doctor?" asked Will, bemused.

"That, my dear child, is the question isn't it?" replied the man, winking at the boy. "Let's just say that where Pellinore is concerned, I do enjoy surprising him whenever I can."

The boy frowned, remembering how the doctor reacted when he returned home from school on Monday. He didn't feel as though Dr Warthrop would appreciate such 'surprises'. But the man seemed to know the doctor, so perhaps it was just another aspect to the doctor's eccentric personality.

"Here, hold this." A personal cooler was placed in Will's startled hands, its tough plastic exterior cold against his skin.

"Two hands now! That's it. It should not be too difficult. In a sense you are already carrying one!” The man laughed at his vague joke, teeth flashing. “Now don’t drop it, unless you would like the doctor and myself to come after yours!” Grabbing the handlebars of his motorbike, he kicked the stand and began wheeling the machine into the garage.

Unlike the rest of the house when Will came to live with the doctor, he had not yet entered the garage. He never had need to. To Will’s surprise, it was relatively clean, save a few leaves here and there and a dusty floor. A washing machine and dryer stood in one corner flanked by a wooden worktable. Two dingy windows were built into the left side facing the deserted wooded lot. On the right wall shared with the house, was a built-in table, utility sink, a shelving unit organized with tools and an overhanging ladder.

The man parked his motorcycle in the back and began to remove his gear. First he threw on a large black knapsack with shiny zippers and sturdy buckles holding down the flap. Next he gently removed an oblong four-foot case and hoisted that over his shoulder. Lastly, he flung a cloth bag upon the washing machine and turned towards Will.

"Still have a good grip on my present? Oh good! There's an excellent lad! Pellinore could not have done better."

The man strode past Will, gave him a conspirator's grin and flung down the garage door. It bounced against the concrete with a deafening rattle. The man stomped it back into place and threw the lock.

"Snug as a bedbug," he said, stepping back to view his handiwork, hands splayed upon his hips. Turning his heel, he beckoned for Will to follow. "Now to pay a visit to my dear friend. It has been much too long!"

He leapt up the stairs in a single bound, swinging open the screen door. "Into the lair we shall go!"

The man grinned down at the boy who stood at the bottom of the stairs, his face stamped with bafflement. Whoever this man was, Will had trouble imagining him being an acquaintance of the surly Dr Warthrop, much less an old friend.

The man flung open the main door with a flourish. He entered as if he owned the place, making his way directly into the kitchen. Seated at the table with his back towards them was the doctor stooped over the keyboard, pecking away at the keys with a single finger.

"Ah, my dear Pellinore! There you are! And as hale as a dour old maid!" he greeted, sweeping his arms outwards as if expecting a hug.

"Kearns!" yelled the doctor, bolting upright and turning a wild-eyed stare towards his visitor. It flicked to Will who hovered in the doorway, arms wrapped around the man's cooler, and Warthrop slumped in his chair again. He rubbed a hand over his haggard face and shot a glower in their direction.

"What the devil are you doing here, Kearns?"

"Three months without seeing each other and this is my welcome," Kearns answered, sounding a bit off-put. "However, it is to be expected. You did not answer my phone call." Kearns crossed his arms, weight on one foot as he stared down at the doctor.

"Oh." Warthrop scratched his head, mussing the limp bedraggled strands. Kearns’ smile fled and his eyes narrowed.

"Oh, indeed. Pellinore, you look dreadful. And at the state you are in, that is positively a compliment."

Pellinore scowled and turned back to his work, waving distractedly at the man behind him. "I have work, Jack. It takes priority over other matters sometimes."

Kearns wrinkled his nose, lips drawn thin.

"Currently there are some things that require attending to first Pellinore," he stated.

At the man's unbrooking tone, Warthrop turned his head regarding Kearns wearily over his shoulder.

"What would be more important than my life's work, Jack?"

Kearns looked at his friend, unblinking for a long moment. Then he tilted his head.

"Oh, I think this might be tad more thrilling than your current work, my dear Pellinore," he said, beckoning Will to his side.

He took the handle of the cooler in one swift movement and sidled to the other end of the table, directly across from Warthrop, whose dark eyes never left Kearns. The man leaned atop the cooler, crossing his arms over the lid and draping himself over the container. Warthrop's eyes were aglow, fixed on the box.

"What do you have in there?" Warthrop leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms and regarded the man with half-closed lids.

Kearns chuckled and grinned menacingly, teeth piercing the gloom.

"Not until you wash your foul self, Warthrop," he demanded.

Warthrop sat up at that. "Afterwards.”

"Oh no, Warthrop," purred Kearns, fingers drumming the cooler. "You are rank. I will not compromise my professional prowess in maintaining such a perfect specimen to let you handle it with such disgraceful hygiene." Kearns tutted.

Warthrop averted his gaze. “I don't need this from you, Jack," he retorted. His face scrunched sourly. Then he sneezed.

Kearns shook his head. He drew himself to his full height, looking down on the doctor across the table. Feeling the man's intensity boring into him, Warthrop shifted in his seat, glowering at his friend.

"Apparently you do,” rejoined Kearns. “Who better than your dear old friend to provide it?"

The two men seized each other's gaze, both scowling at the other. The doctor's back was rigid but soon collapsed under the sheer scrutiny of the formidable Kearns.

Warthrop sighed, head bowed as he pushed himself away from the table. The chair screeched in protest and he stood, arms locked against the edge as he leaned over it.

"I will return, Jack, but whatever it is that you have procured had better be worth my time and trouble."

Warthrop twisted away from the mess and strode away from his friend, stride slow and purposeful. His back stood ramrod straight, as if Kearns just ordered him towards the firing squad.

Once the doctor's footsteps could no longer be heard, Kearns turned towards Will, who had remained in the back near the garage door.

"If Warthrop had another bathroom in this dreary house of his, you'd be joining him. You are strikingly similar in disposition," commented Kearns, one golden brow raised as he looked the little boy over. The exhaustion and crushing workload that were thrust upon his small shoulders etched their toll upon his thin face, his drooping posture and the dark circles wrapping around his eyes.

"However,” he continued, “it has been quite remiss of me not to introduce myself. But as you did not either, I believe we are even." Kearns leaned an elbow against the ladder-back chair, hands loosely held together and ankles crossed.

"What is your name, little assistant?"

Will rubbed at his eyes and walked up to the Warthrop's recently vacated seat. Distractedly he began gathering up the various half-empty mugs around his seat and under the table.

"My name is Will Henry, sir." He dumped the tea into the sink. "My father worked for the doctor, and now...he wishes for me to do so too." Will shrugged off his backpack, leaning it against the counters. He snagged the tea kettle and began preparing tea.

"Ah! Assistant Will Henry! Though for such a young man, I would dare say you’d make a better apprentice." Kearns tapped his chin, looking towards the hallway. He snapped his fingers.

"An assistant-apprentice! I'd say, that is quite apt. Has he shown you the craft, little assistant-apprentice?"

Shoveling teabags into the rinsed-out teapot, Will tried to concentrate on the strange man's question. He wasn't exactly sure what he was asking and also uncertain of how to deal with him, given his current playful nature in contrast to the lethal aura he buffeted Will with outside.

"I believe so, sir. I write his papers. And he told me about his work with parasites. In the basement," Will added.

"Has he? The devil! Perhaps my surprise shall impress you as well, little Will!" Though he replied with joviality, something hard flinted in his eyes and his jaw clenched tightly beneath his boyish exterior.

The spoon clinked dully as Will stirred the sugar into his and the doctor's teacups. He carried the doctor's to his customary spot, keeping a wide berth of the doctor's friend. Kearns had his arms crossed and was tapping idly against his clothed arms.

"Would you like some tea too, sir?" asked Will tentatively. Though Kearns’ face was blank, something moved beneath the man's skin, a sense of something past shimmering below the surface.

A disarming smile was turned in Will's direction.

"Why, thank you. Two sugars please. And cream."

Will prepared his drink and returned with a mug, holding it out to the exceedingly tall man. He took it with a fluid flick of his wrist.

"Oh, and Mr Assistant-Apprentice Will Henry? I fear I have been quite rude."

A glint of teeth peeked over the rim of the cup, before biting down with a sip of the hot beverage.

"The name is Kearns. Dr Jack Kearns."

 

***

Will Henry awoke early that morning for school but it wasn't to the deafening scream of his alarm clock. Instead, Will had awoken to something poking him in the shoulder. Groggily he shifted, rubbing his sleep-deprived eyes in an effort to focus them.

A pair of backlit eyes hovered above his face, staring down on him.

Will froze.

The eyes continued to stare.

"Ah, Will Henry, you are finally awake."

The voice scrambled in his brain for a whole minute before his mind was able to recognize it as the doctor's.

"Y-yes, sir!" Will stammered, flinging the words out.

"Excellent!" cried the doctor, "Come downstairs and quickly! There is something I want to show you." He straightened as much as he could in the tiny attic but his head remained bowed as it brushed against the rafters.

However, Will remained stiff under the covers, gawking at the man hanging over him like some obscure specter.

Warthrop frowned at Will’s lack of action.

"Snap to, Will Henry! I require your services at once! Since you have school, it was necessary to wake you much earlier."

As if on cue, the alarm exploded into an ear-splitting screech, sending Will sprawling over the counterpane and the doctor smacking his head against the ceiling.

"Damn and blast, Will Henry! What the devil is that?" He reached over to the offending object and punched the button on top.

"I thought I disposed of this atrocious device when I was sent to school," said Warthrop, glaring at it before chucking it into a corner. "I shall procure you a less offensive time-keeping apparatus, Will Henry, but for now, snap to!" He shuffled over to the stairs, hunching over as the ceiling sloped and popped back down the trapdoor.

The doctor's footsteps died away, leaving Will to stare blankly at the ceiling for a long moment. If there was one thing he was beginning to rapidly understand, is that there was no pinning down the doctor. He reminded Will of a shadow: right when you thought you understood what made it and how it was shaped, it would change on you, indefinitely and without recourse.

Will rolled out of bed, shoving his chilled body into his clothes. Still cold, Will threw on his baggy sweatshirt, rolled up the sleeves to release his hands and scuttled down the ladder, shutting the trapdoor. He headed downstairs and made his way into the kitchen.

To his surprise, Warthrop was sitting at the little round table, going through the various piles of paperwork and consolidating them into some resemblance of order. Though that meant the entire table was now covered in stacks of paper and nowhere to eat.

"There you are, Will Henry," said the doctor turning in his seat as Will entered, "Put on the kettle and come here immediately! It is most imperative."

Will did so and returned, doctor now standing over his morning's work and stretching out his back.

"As you now reside with me, it is essential you are aware of my requirements for aiding in my research, as your father done before."

"Your research, sir?" asked Will, looking up at the doctor.

Warthrop frowned. "Why yes, Will Henry, my research." He crooked a dark brow. "Whatever did you think I did all day? Your father said you were a sharp lad. I expect to see that from you."

Will dropped his eyes back to the table. "I don’t really know what you do. Father wouldn’t tell me. He told me you did 'great work' and that you were a doctor and a monstrumologist, but that’s it. Mother never would tell me either but she didn't like it so I figured that's why. He did tell me about your guys' travels though, the places you went to, when he came back home.” Will fiddled with a corner of paperwork. “I figured you were kind of like the doctors Mother would take me to."

Dr Warthrop crossed his arms and shifted upon his feet. "Mm, that is most unfortunate, but understandable. Your father kept his promise to keep my work a secret I see, as I wished of him."

He plucked at his lip, arm propped upon the other that hugged his torso. He pulled taut then snapped loose, long arms dangling at his sides.

"As it is, Will Henry, I require a great deal of services in my line of work and I do not need to assume that you have noticed how extensive my work can become." He gestured towards the table. "You shall be my assistant in such matters and seeing as your father was loyal in keeping his word, I shall teach you the necessities of what my work entails.”

He turned, hands folded at his back and addressed the boy in a severe tone, “I am fore and foremost a monstrumologist, a scientist in the field of aberrant biology. I study creatures that prey upon humans."

Startled brown eyes shot straight to the doctor's face. "You mean monsters?"

The doctor fixed him with a cold stare.

"Do not be absurd or obtuse. Monsters do not exist, though some of the more ignorant masses enjoy assigning such a moniker to things that can be explained through natural scientific inquiry and logic. And no, Will Henry, I do not study creatures such as ursines or felines that are known to attack and sometimes eat humans, though entertaining as many people find that egg-headed form of pursuit to be. Humans are not in their natural diet so therefore they are not creatures that prey upon humans."

Warthrop drew up to his full height, arms bracing against his back and he loomed over the boy. His shadow swallowed him whole, entire body backlit with an overwhelming aura.

"I study parasites, creatures both small and large that consume us from within, preying upon our flesh as we live and breathe: worms, amoebas, ectoparasites and protozoa. It is my life's work to research and catalog such aberrant life-forms and to discover all I can about them, from how they consume human flesh to their lifespans within our bodies and the surrounding environment. It was what your father has been assisting me with for his thirteen years of service to me and I expect you to assume his mantle as well."

Dark eyes bore down on the child as he wheeled with the onslaught of information.

Will Henry remembered a morning news story about a boy his age that had a spider that laid eggs in his ear. Just listening to that from his spot in the kitchen caused Will distress and horror that such a thing could happen to someone. And now here was the doctor explaining that not only such things existed naturally on a daily basis, but that he and his father hunted and researched them for a living.

Will felt his stomach churn.

"Well?" The doctor's tone was sharp, demanding an answer.

So Will nodded, not realizing what he was consenting to.

"Follow me," the doctor commanded, shifting on his heel towards the basement. As he descended down the stairs, he called behind him.

"This is my personal laboratory, which you shall never enter unless I give you my express permission to do so. When in use, it needs to be sterile at all times, else it ruins the data as well as puts one at risk for infection."

Will cautiously stepped down the stairs, squinting against the blinding light. Suddenly the boy felt extremely overwhelmed, hands clenching tight around the railing and steps faltering to a stop.

The stark whitewashed walls he glimpsed yesterday were covered floor to ceiling upon the opposite side with thick wooden shelves fitted with glass doors. Upon every inch of the display were jars filled a variety of creatures suspended or crammed tightly in liquid amber. Some contained vertebrates such as snakes and fish, but most housed stringy masses of worms and organs and in some cases: both. The golden solution lent a syrupy glow against the deceased creatures and body parts that were at odds with the rest of the room.

A huge stainless steel table with upraised edges and a drain dominated the center of the basement. Bolted to the floor near it was a glaring lamp that had many separate smaller lamps contained in its massive head, like a lotus seed pod. The doctor adjusted its jointed structure, pulling it upright and tilting the head for a more ambient light.

To Will's right, ensconced between the far wall and the stairwell was a large desk strewn with books, spiral notebooks, a thick leather folio and reams of paperwork. Nailed above the desk was a glass cabinet similar in style to the specimen shelving, but this one contained a haphazard array of books and journals of all sizes, all of which looked more than a century old.

In the back was an 'L' shaped corner desk that looked as if it was plucked straight from a doctor's office, with drawers and a sink flanking it. A box of latex gloves and a glass container of several instruments soaking in alcohol sat upon the countertop along with a microscope and several pieces of labeled glass. A metal wheeled cart stood off to the side, bare and gleaming.

"This is where I work and soon you as well," stated the doctor, jerking the boy from his aghast perusal of the forbidden room.

The doctor paced in front of the specimen cabinet, its eerie amber glow sharping the planes of the doctor's severe demeanor.

"Wha—what kind of things do you do down here?" asked Will tremulously, holding back from taking the final step onto the tiled floor.  Instinctively, he was afraid. He felt that if he took that last step, he'd allow the fantastical to become real; that creatures, only whispered between the pages of books and kept restrained with endless constraints of letters, would be brought to life right before his eyes.

The doctor halted and threw a scathing look at the boy.

"You have a brain, do you not? Or are you merely using that place in-between your ears as a rented space for whatever deigns to take up residence?"

Will flushed, irritated that he just got rebuked for something he genuinely did not know. He hunched his shoulders, too tired to attempt to say protest or refute the doctor’s claim. "Yes, sir," he said.

Warthrop whirled, hands grabbing hold of the indifferent steel.

"Yes, sir? Were you agreeing with me that you have no brain? No organ in which to animate the trivial words that spill forth from your lips like the most dull-witted of persons?"

Tears stabbed at Will's eyes, which he squeezed in his effort not to cry.

"No, sir, I didn't mean that at all!" Anger quivered through his small frame and his too-large sweatjacket fell over his clenched fists. "I just wanted to know what all of this was since you brought me down here to help you!"

Warthrop looked slightly taken back, hands loosening their hold.

"You do not need to get so emotional this early in the morning Will Henry," he chided, arms falling to his side.

Will deflated, exhausted. Desperation to escape the doctor's domain filled him and he wanted to return to school, to the one place where nothing had turned upside-down on him. The one place he could traverse without the fear of tripping a strange man's wrath or to suffer the crushing void of his absence.

"Sorry, sir." Will bowed his head. "I'm sorry, but I need to get going now or I'll miss my bus."

Already the doctor had returned to his desk, back turned to the boy.

"Yes yes, education is of utmost importance. Do not be a disappointment." He made a shooing motion.

Stung by the man’s callousness, Will wanted to stomp up the stairs but he had no energy. So he dragged himself into the kitchen instead. The kettle had been boiling away for quite a while so only enough for a single cup remained. Will wanted to fling it into the sink and have the doctor make his own cup, but he also didn’t want to get into any more trouble.

So he made the doctor's cup and set it aside, checking the clock on the microwave which he had set earlier. He didn't have enough time for breakfast so he just slung on his backpack, grabbed the last remaining packet of cherry poptarts and escaped from the claustrophobic house, flinging himself into the biting embrace of the chilled morning,

For Will, the rest of the week moved like being trapped in a blizzard of images, smeared together as if someone dragged their fingers through wet canvas and distorted the picture painted there. People told him what to do and he followed, putting his body through the motions.

Even though it was only the end of his first week back at school, he felt as if he wasn't grasping any of the information. Everything turned to gibberish; conversation and words and instruction all scrambling together like pudding in his head.

He couldn't even find solace in his journals; once on paper it was as if he didn't even write the words or feel the thoughts himself.  It all seemed fabricated; stories from another boy's life.  There were entries about talking with Malachi and the silly things his sisters would do at the bus stop. Of how many balls he caught and missed during his recess practices. Of things he observed throughout the day. But it never seemed like that stuff even happened to him.

The boy that finished his homework before being directed to transcribe paperwork from an untidy jumble to the creaky laptop. The boy that constantly made enough tea to wonder if a man could subsist solely on that alone. And the boy that fought against vivid memories with only his fists twisting in the quilt as his only defense. Those were the children he recognized, the facets of the boy that Will Henry had come to know in the last two weeks since the fire.

When he had returned home that Monday, the ever-present stacks had remained exactly where they had been the night before, but the dusty laptop had found its way in-between the piles.

Will had actually caught the doctor eating something that particular day when he threw a wrapper into the rubbish bin, before he directed Will over to the laptop. But when Will told him he had homework to do first, he looked offended, as if Will's studies had the audacity to take precedence over his work.

After banishing Will’s backpack to the corner, the doctor instructed him what his duties were as his newly appointed assistant, which was to transform the copious amounts of handwritten notes into organized Word documents.

First Will had to plug in the computer since it wasn't charged. Then he had to ask for the password, which garnered him a blank stare.

"Password, Will Henry?"

"Yes, sir. For your computer."

"For the computer," he echoed.

"Yes, I can't get on because I don't know your password."

The doctor waited for the boy to say more but Will just kept watching the doctor, waiting too.

Warthrop frowned. Then remembering something, he retrieved his wallet from his back pocket, rifling through all the slots before triumphantly removing a ratted and stained slip of folded paper. He tossed it on the keyboard and hovered behind Will, balancing on the balls of his feet.

Will unfurled the worn piece of paper, revealing the doctor's username and password written out in his father's familiar handwriting. The doctor's full name was his username and his occupation the password, which made it easy to remember for Will but difficult to type out, especially when the man was hanging over him. It was easier after it booted up since the desktop was organized stringently according to his father's excellent sense of order.

Excited to see his work once again, the doctor had begun directing Will to open and peruse the various documents, going over in great excruciating detail the various aspects of several of the documents. The jargon, research facts and procedures flew straight over Will's head, leaving him bored and tired. He nodded mutely whenever the doctor paused significantly in his endless lecture, waiting for the boy’s response.

Even though the doctor was finally paying some attention to him, Will felt more like a warm body to listen to him talk his interests at. He had the distinct feeling that if another unfortunate soul was trapped in-between the doctor and his work, they would have not been treated any differently than Will currently was.

When Will had begun to yawn, the doctor frowned at the interruption, and then proceeded to address him on the goals for the rest of the week. By the time he was done, it was late and Will didn’t even get to start his homework. So he ended up falling into his bed an hour before midnight, which thanks to the doctor's piles upon piles of documents and lectures plus his studies, fast became routine.

On Friday, Will was so drained he could barely keep his eyes open in class and he had to beg off playing baseball with his friends, much to their concern and disappointment. Malachi and even his sisters asked after him, wondering if there was anything they could do to make him feel less overwhelmed, but Will shook his head and thanked them for their kindness.

Unlike his old self, Will was desperately looking forward to the weekend just to catch up on his sleep. Even if the doctor pestered him for more typing, at least he'd have time to finish his homework _and_ go to bed on time.

Sneakers scraped against the concrete as Will forced himself to the doctor’s house. He was so tired that he almost missed it as he trudged through the lawn. That is, if he hadn't tripped over his shoes.

He let out a cry and flung his arms out for balance, managing not to topple over in the dry dead grass. When he righted himself, that's when he saw it.

A gleaming black motorcycle.

It was parked alongside the doctor's Daytona, completely at odds with the dented and scuffed matte paint job of the battered two-door vehicle.

Will got to his feet, knocking the grass off his knees. But he couldn’t take his eyes off the motorcycle, arrested by the old-fashioned but well-maintained classic that he remembered seeing from some of his mother's favorite James Dean movies.

What kind of person owned such a bike? And why were they visiting the doctor?

It was tantalizing. The polished chrome winked in the sunlight and the spokes where shiny, arranged in a neat design.

Will couldn't help himself. He wanted a closer look. Throwing a distracted glace to the front door, he picked his way over to the motorcycle.

It was as wonderful as he expected and he bobbed up and down as he inspected every inch of the dazzling machine. The chrome dials perched perfectly on the handlebars, and even the wheels looked new, despite the obvious conclusion that it must’ve been driven there.

The boy was so enthralled that he nearly knocked it over when a silken voice emerged from his right.

"Well well, I see you are positively captivated by shiny objects. Perhaps I should consider using it as bait in the future. When I am in need of capturing a wandering child that is."

Will's hands flew upwards, barely nicking the leather seat, and he let out a strangled gasp. He whirled, hands fleeing to his backpack straps.

"Ah. Move this way, please. Else you will knock my bike over and I fear you shall have to pay recompense," laughed the owner of the voice, who stood a few feet away, leaning lazily on the hood of the doctor's car. One hand held a pair of gleaming metal handles in one hand, agile fingers flipping it back and forth idly.

The man had sparkling teeth that were bright in his slightly tanned face even though he was quite fair, as if he'd been in warmer climes. His flaxen hair curled about his ears and shoulders and lent a feline grace to his figure. A diaphanous moustache adorned his lips, pulled into a disconcerting smile that held a promise—one dictated by your choices on whether it would be a good or bad one.

Despite having obviously come on his motorcycle, everything about him was impeccable from his polished riding boats to his coiffed hair and his crisp outfit, consisting of russet slacks, a cream shirtsleeve and tastefully patterned vest. Coupled with his melodic British accent, he seemed out of place surrounded by the unkempt residence of 425 Harrington Lane.

The man raised a brow at Will's continuous perusal of him.

"And to think I only came here with the intention of breaking in,” he drawled. “Yet here I am being ogled by one of the neighborhood children. How disconcerting." The steel handles clacked in his hand as he continued to flick it back and forth between his fingers.

Will took a step back in alarm. "The door's locked?" he blurted, stating the first thing that came to mind. His eyes widened at his outburst.

The man caught his tool in one fluid motion and cocked his head.

"Whatever do you mean by that query?" he purred with a smile that sent Will’s nerves skittering.

Even if Will ran his utmost, the man would be on him in a heartbeat, his height lending him the advantage. So Will stood his ground, knuckles frozen around his backpack straps.

"The doctor forgets to lock the door, s-sir." Will swallowed, wondering why he just admitted to this stranger that his house is always unlocked, right after he just admitted he was going to break in!

The man's molten grey eyes froze, swirling to black.

"Is that so?" He arched off the hood and strode over to Will. "And how would you know of the good doctor?"

He loomed over the small child, who began trembling, yet did not move an inch. Will's eyes flicked to the man’s hands but they were now empty and hung loose at his sides.

"I live with him, sir."

Whatever it was, the man wasn't expecting that. Will caught a glimpse of his dark eyes widening a fraction before they became shuttered.

"You live with Pellinore?"

Will snapped his head up at the casual use of the doctor's first name. Though adrenaline coursed through his body twisting his muscles to run and escape inside, he did not feel the same level of threat as before. But just barely.

Mouth dry, Will nodded. “Yes sir, I do. I live with him."

The man continued to look down at him like he was some bizarre puzzle he was mentally trying to solve.

"Well...Pellinore would be the last person I would peg on earth to acquire a child," he said, stalking around Will, hand tapping his chin. "Where ever did you come from? Did our friend snag you off the street with a well-stocked trap?"

Feeling exposed to the man's predatory gaze as he circled around him, Will pointedly kept his gaze fixed on a patch of dead grass.

"I-I...my parents are dead. They died...and I live with the doctor now," said Will, breathing shallowly. "My father was friends with the doctor…so he took me in."

At his admission, two polished boots halted in front of him, blocking his view.

"Your father was friends with Dr Warthrop?" The voice did not sound pleased.

Will couldn't feel his hands anymore, squeezing as tight as he could around the straps.

"Yes," he whispered, "He worked for Dr Warthrop. He was his assistant."

"What was your father's name?" The voice was flat.

Will bowed his head and squeezed his eyes shut. "James. James Henry."

There was a long pause.

Uncertain, Will opened his eyes. The figure had not moved. Will craned his head but the man wasn't looking at him anymore.

Instead he was regarding the house, brows furrowed in concentration and chin resting on his hand. The other tapped his waist where it wrapped around his middle.

Will shifted on his feet.

"Do you know him?"

A single eye flicked towards the boy.

"I do know of a Mr Henry. Perhaps he is your father. Or perhaps he is a different Henry altogether."

Will's face fell, suddenly very tired.

"No, I meant...how do you know Dr Warthrop?"

The man turned, regarding the boy with a questioning gaze. Then he spun around, returning back to the garage door.

"He's an old friend," replied the man, off-handedly.

There was a quick flick of his wrist and instantly the two metal handles reappeared in his hand. Another flick and a knife flashed, spinning elegantly atop his fingers before they snatched it in midair.

The man crouched down and began picking the lock on the garage door. He twiddled the knifepoint in the keyhole, slowly twisting and maneuvering the sharp blade. He perked up, leaned in closer, one hand pressed against the door and the other gently working the lock. It clicked and the man smiled.

"Ah, there she goes!" he exclaimed, hopping to his feet. He swept his clothes free of dust, cracked his knuckles and hurled the garage door open with a bang.

"If that doesn't rouse our dear doctor to our presence, then he's either asleep or buried in work. Which being Pellinore, is quite likely in either case."

The man strode back to his motorcycle where Will had remained, watching the man break into the doctor's garage with horrified fascination.

"Why didn't you just knock if you wanted to get the doctor?" asked Will, bemused.

"That, my dear child, is the question isn't it?" replied the man, winking at the boy. "Let's just say that where Pellinore is concerned, I do enjoy surprising him whenever I can."

The boy frowned, remembering how the doctor reacted when he returned home from school on Monday. He didn't feel as though Dr Warthrop would appreciate such 'surprises'. But the man seemed to know the doctor, so perhaps it was just another aspect to the doctor's eccentric personality.

"Here, hold this." A personal cooler was placed in Will's startled hands, its tough plastic exterior cold against his skin.

"Two hands now! That's it. It should not be too difficult. In a sense you are already carrying one!” The man laughed at his vague joke, teeth flashing. “Now don’t drop it, unless you would like the doctor and myself to come after yours!” Grabbing the handlebars of his motorbike, he kicked the stand and began wheeling the machine into the garage.

Unlike the rest of the house when Will came to live with the doctor, he had not yet entered the garage. He never had need to. To Will’s surprise, it was relatively clean, save a few leaves here and there and a dusty floor. A washing machine and dryer stood in one corner flanked by a wooden worktable. Two dingy windows were built into the left side facing the deserted wooded lot. On the right wall shared with the house, was a built-in table, utility sink, a shelving unit organized with tools and an overhanging ladder.

The man parked his motorcycle in the back and began to remove his gear. First he threw on a large black knapsack with shiny zippers and sturdy buckles holding down the flap. Next he gently removed an oblong four-foot case and hoisted that over his shoulder. Lastly, he flung a cloth bag upon the washing machine and turned towards Will.

"Still have a good grip on my present? Oh good! There's an excellent lad! Pellinore could not have done better."

The man strode past Will, gave him a conspirator's grin and flung down the garage door. It bounced against the concrete with a deafening rattle. The man stomped it back into place and threw the lock.

"Snug as a bedbug," he said, stepping back to view his handiwork, hands splayed upon his hips. Turning his heel, he beckoned for Will to follow. "Now to pay a visit to my dear friend. It has been much too long!"

He leapt up the stairs in a single bound, swinging open the screen door. "Into the lair we shall go!"

The man grinned down at the boy who stood at the bottom of the stairs, his face stamped with bafflement. Whoever this man was, Will had trouble imagining him being an acquaintance of the surly Dr Warthrop, much less an old friend.

The man flung open the main door with a flourish. He entered as if he owned the place, making his way directly into the kitchen. Seated at the table with his back towards them was the doctor stooped over the keyboard, pecking away at the keys with a single finger.

"Ah, my dear Pellinore! There you are! And as hale as a dour old maid!" he greeted, sweeping his arms outwards as if expecting a hug.

"Kearns!" yelled the doctor, bolting upright and turning a wild-eyed stare towards his visitor. It flicked to Will who hovered in the doorway, arms wrapped around the man's cooler, and Warthrop slumped in his chair again. He rubbed a hand over his haggard face and shot a glower in their direction.

"What the devil are you doing here, Kearns?"

"Three months without seeing each other and this is my welcome," Kearns answered, sounding a bit off-put. "However, it is to be expected. You did not answer my phone call." Kearns crossed his arms, weight on one foot as he stared down at the doctor.

"Oh." Warthrop scratched his head, mussing the limp bedraggled strands. Kearns’ smile fled and his eyes narrowed.

"Oh, indeed. Pellinore, you look dreadful. And at the state you are in, that is positively a compliment."

Pellinore scowled and turned back to his work, waving distractedly at the man behind him. "I have work, Jack. It takes priority over other matters sometimes."

Kearns wrinkled his nose, lips drawn thin.

"Currently there are some things that require attending to first Pellinore," he stated.

At the man's unbrooking tone, Warthrop turned his head regarding Kearns wearily over his shoulder.

"What would be more important than my life's work, Jack?"

Kearns looked at his friend, unblinking for a long moment. Then he tilted his head.

"Oh, I think this might be tad more thrilling than your current work, my dear Pellinore," he said, beckoning Will to his side.

He took the handle of the cooler in one swift movement and sidled to the other end of the table, directly across from Warthrop, whose dark eyes never left Kearns. The man leaned atop the cooler, crossing his arms over the lid and draping himself over the container. Warthrop's eyes were aglow, fixed on the box.

"What do you have in there?" Warthrop leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms and regarded the man with half-closed lids.

Kearns chuckled and grinned menacingly, teeth piercing the gloom.

"Not until you wash your foul self, Warthrop," he demanded.

Warthrop sat up at that. "Afterwards.”

"Oh no, Warthrop," purred Kearns, fingers drumming the cooler. "You are rank. I will not compromise my professional prowess in maintaining such a perfect specimen to let you handle it with such disgraceful hygiene." Kearns tutted.

Warthrop averted his gaze. “I don't need this from you, Jack," he retorted. His face scrunched sourly. Then he sneezed.

Kearns shook his head. He drew himself to his full height, looking down on the doctor across the table. Feeling the man's intensity boring into him, Warthrop shifted in his seat, glowering at his friend.

"Apparently you do,” rejoined Kearns. “Who better than your dear old friend to provide it?"

The two men seized each other's gaze, both scowling at the other. The doctor's back was rigid but soon collapsed under the sheer scrutiny of the formidable Kearns.

Warthrop sighed, head bowed as he pushed himself away from the table. The chair screeched in protest and he stood, arms locked against the edge as he leaned over it.

"I will return, Jack, but whatever it is that you have procured had better be worth my time and trouble."

Warthrop twisted away from the mess and strode away from his friend, stride slow and purposeful. His back stood ramrod straight, as if Kearns just ordered him towards the firing squad.

Once the doctor's footsteps could no longer be heard, Kearns turned towards Will, who had remained in the back near the garage door.

"If Warthrop had another bathroom in this dreary house of his, you'd be joining him. You are strikingly similar in disposition," commented Kearns, one golden brow raised as he looked the little boy over. The exhaustion and crushing workload that were thrust upon his small shoulders etched their toll upon his thin face, his drooping posture and the dark circles wrapping around his eyes.

"However,” he continued, “it has been quite remiss of me not to introduce myself. But as you did not either, I believe we are even." Kearns leaned an elbow against the ladder-back chair, hands loosely held together and ankles crossed.

"What is your name, little assistant?"

Will rubbed at his eyes and walked up to the Warthrop's recently vacated seat. Distractedly he began gathering up the various half-empty mugs around his seat and under the table.

"My name is Will Henry, sir." He dumped the tea into the sink. "My father worked for the doctor, and now...he wishes for me to do so too." Will shrugged off his backpack, leaning it against the counters. He snagged the tea kettle and began preparing tea.

"Ah! Assistant Will Henry! Though for such a young man, I would dare say you’d make a better apprentice." Kearns tapped his chin, looking towards the hallway. He snapped his fingers.

"An assistant-apprentice! I'd say, that is quite apt. Has he shown you the craft, little assistant-apprentice?"

Shoveling teabags into the rinsed-out teapot, Will tried to concentrate on the strange man's question. He wasn't exactly sure what he was asking and also uncertain of how to deal with him, given his current playful nature in contrast to the lethal aura he buffeted Will with outside.

"I believe so, sir. I write his papers. And he told me about his work with parasites. In the basement," Will added.

"Has he? The devil! Perhaps my surprise shall impress you as well, little Will!" Though he replied with joviality, something hard flinted in his eyes and his jaw clenched tightly beneath his boyish exterior.

The spoon clinked dully as Will stirred the sugar into his and the doctor's teacups. He carried the doctor's to his customary spot, keeping a wide berth of the doctor's friend. Kearns had his arms crossed and was tapping idly against his clothed arms.

"Would you like some tea too, sir?" asked Will tentatively. Though Kearns’ face was blank, something moved beneath the man's skin, a sense of something past shimmering below the surface.

A disarming smile was turned in Will's direction.

"Why, thank you. Two sugars please. And cream."

Will prepared his drink and returned with a mug, holding it out to the exceedingly tall man. He took it with a fluid flick of his wrist.

"Oh, and Mr Assistant-Apprentice Will Henry? I fear I have been quite rude."

A glint of teeth peeked over the rim of the cup, before biting down with a sip of the hot beverage.

"The name is Kearns. Dr Jack Kearns."

 

***


	7. Wholly My Work

Pellinore shuffled sullenly into the kitchen, freshly mismatched socks upon his feet and dressed acceptably in a wrinkled black shirt and dark brown trousers. He flopped down in his chair, grabbed his mug and took a gulp. The cooler was nowhere to be found and neither was the boy or Kearns. He grit his teeth, inhaled the rest of his tea and clanked it upon the tabletop.

With the whole trek down into the Everglades and its subsequent consequences, Pellinore had not had time or the energy to consider anyone or anything else. Taking over the mantle of his and James' entire research, along with checking up on his assistant's debilitating health took up all he had.

Pellinore prodded his empty cup.

He hadn't remembered a phone call or message from Jack, yet here he was, the same man as always, interrupting whatever it was he and James was doing with his latest acquisition or scintillating tale. Though Pellinore couldn’t care less about Jack’s tendency to show up whenever he pleased, James would instantly turn grouchy and uptight when the man appeared upon his doorstep.

Pellinore never understood where James' vehement rivalry with Jack came from, but James always distasted answering the door or the phone since there was a slim chance that it would be Kearns on the other end.  If he ever came back from answering the summons with a sour face, Pellinore would sigh, knowing exactly who was on the other end before getting up to let his itinerant friend in himself.

That is, if Kearns had not already shouldered his way inside, smirking and being a nuisance behind his angry assistant.

Though Pellinore had been surprised to see Kearns with Will Henry at his side, there was something else that bothered him about his longtime friend that he hadn't felt before. When Kearns stared down on him with those mercurial eyes, he felt like he had sliced himself with their penetrating gaze. Nonplussed, he had to tear his eyes away.

However, his mind strayed from trying to analyze enigmatic observations of his friend to whatever currently resided in the icebox. It nagged at him. Whatever it was, it was something that Jack thought significant since he had delivered it personally. He was irritated that after doing what Jack pestered him to do, the man was nowhere to be seen. On top of that, he whisked away his assistant as well!

Pellinore huffed to himself, pitching himself out of his chair. He snagged his mug and stomped over to the lukewarm teapot.

Did it have something to tie in with his last case? Jack did know of what James and he needed to do in the Everglades, but he never had time to contact him further regarding the details. They both had to fly down unexpectedly thanks to a phone call regarding the expedient progression of the parasite that before had only been contained to one causality. 

Grunting, he reached over and grabbed the sugar bowl from atop the microwave.

What if it was one of those random finds that, thanks to Kearns' profession, he had stumbled upon and decided it was worth bringing to his attention? The last time Kearns had brought something of that magnitude, even James relinquished his dislike momentarily to stand in awe alongside Pellinore.

Several grains of sugar fell upon the countertop as his hand shook with anticipation. He bit his bottom lip, stirring the sugar and cream into his teacup.

Damn and blast that bloody Kearns! Teasing him and then just waltzing to God knows where.

Pellinore chucked his spoon in the sink, a loud clattering ring in the silent house. He glared at the offending utensil before tossing back a long drink of his tea.

He flicked his gaze over to the hallway and there stood James' son, looking more bemused than he usually did, before making his way to his side. Grabbing his backpack, he murmured a soft 'Good afternoon sir' to Pellinore's stockinged feet before heading back to the table.

"Where have you been, Will Henry?" asked the doctor.

Startled, the boy looked at him before turning back around. He took up his spot at the table, scooted a few of the paper stacks aside and began unpacking his backpack.

"Upstairs in the bathroom, sir," he answered.

Pellinore narrowed his eyes. "The bathroom, Will Henry? I have just come from the bathroom. I would distinctly remember if you were in there with me, as it would have been terribly difficult not to notice."

"I went after you were done sir," Will said.

Pellinore huffed in exasperation. "What before then, Will Henry? Does your presence upstairs have anything to do with why Dr Kearns is no longer in residence?"

Will tensed slightly but continued to flip through his workbook.

"He said he had to get something." Will sneaked a glance at the doctor, whose displeased countenance grew stormy at his less-than-clear answer.

"He had to get something," echoed Warthrop, dubiousness edging his tone.

"Yes sir. He just told me that...and left."

Warthrop's nostrils flared as he swirled his remaining tea in his mug.

The temerity of Kearns! To tease him with the promise of an intriguing discovery and then just up and leave to extend whatever game he was playing! Whatever it was that Jack needed, he would be gone until he completed his task.

Fuming, he made himself another mug of tea and threw himself into his chair opposite of Will. He touched the keypad to wake the computer and muttered under his breath when the password screen came up. After three unsuccessful attempts, he growled at Will to unlock it for him and then continued on the work that Kearns and Will had interrupted when they crashed into his house.

Gradually, the quietness of the doctor's residence was accented by the pale scribbling of the boy's pencil as he jotted down answers into his primer and the stilted _click, clack_ of Warthrop pecking away at his laptop.

 

***

 

Will paused, pencil freezing between his fingers as he looked over at the doctor hunched over his keys, the blue glare from the screen bathing his thin features in counterfeit glow.

This was the first time he was working alongside the doctor. He, Will Henry!

Granted, he wasn't working with the doctor on his research, but he was still working at the same table with the man, just as his father did. It gave Will a heady feeling that surged within him and spilled throughout his body, causing it to tremble.

After giving Will his duties, Dr Warthrop had always left Will to complete it without him, vanishing into his rooms. He only came out to check up on Will's progress (often accompanied by the doctor picking out flaws in this transcriptions or the 'blatant misreading of his original texts') or top-up on Darjeeling. Only with the doctor working across from him, did Will feel a bit of what his father tried to explain countless times to both his mother and himself.

Will fidgeted in his seat, doodling nervously on the margins of his worksheet.

Was the doctor editing what he had spent hours typing out for him? Did he do a good enough job? Dr Warthrop hadn't said anything, so perhaps it was he wanted?

The doctor peered over the laptop, brow raised.

"What is it, Will Henry? Is something interesting about my appearance that has you continuously staring at my person?"

Caught in the act, Will flinched and his pencil flung out of his hand and onto the kitchen floor. Both of them watched it roll mournfully to a stop under the cabinets.

Will flushed in embarrassment. Scooting to the edge, he slid himself out of his seat, feeling every inch of himself under the doctor's scrutiny. He blindly fumbled around for his pencil. Then he slowly inched himself back into his seat, making sure not to let his eyes catch the doctor’s.

He fiddled with his pencil and tried to concentrate back on his work but he felt the doctor still waiting for a reply.

"I wasn’t watching you, sir. I was just thinking," he mumbled, tucking his head between his shoulders.

The doctor turned his attention back to his work. "I do not know whether to be relieved or disturbed, Will Henry," he remarked, before pecking away at his computer again. "As much as I am glad that there seems to be some resemblance of a functioning brain in your cranial cavity, I fear the direction of your thoughts that would warrant you plying me with such intensive scrutiny."

Will felt his ears heat up and he was infinitely glad that Dr Warthrop had gone back to work. Will tugged the hoodie's sleeves over his hands before doodling more, attempting to alleviate his embarrassment.

"I was just thinking about my father and his work for you, sir."

The clacking of keys halted momentarily before picking up again. "Ah. Well, there was more to your father's work than merely all the paperwork. Laboratory dissections, visits to the annual Colloquium and of course, field work."

The doctor squinted at his screen before leaning back with a soft exhalation. He punched a couple keys and rubbed his eyes with his thumb and forefinger. "I fear it will be quite a while before you are properly trained to assist in the latter, but I hope perhaps we can have some immediate work done in the former, if Dr Kearns has anything of note in that blasted icebox of his. It has been a while since I have had any specimens of note brought to by attention."

Will tapped his pencil against his cheek.

Whenever Dr Warthrop discussed his parasitic work, Will imagined tiny creatures that resembled bugs like ticks and spiders. After all, the doctor had said that some parasites he studied were worms. So perhaps he had a live parasite in the cooler? They never studied such things in school, just concepts like ecosystems and a bit about the human body. He was curious about what kind of things they could be to have the doctor and his father willing to drop everything for a chance to work and research them.

Will's mind traipsed around all the possible creatures his mind could conjure up from little wiggly earthworms to a creepy spider in a jar. However, once he remembered the amber colored jars of organs down in the doctor's basement, he jerked out of his childish musing, tongue dry as it scraped against his teeth. He sincerely hoped it wasn't one of those.

Suddenly, the clacking stopped. Warthrop straightened in his seat, entire body taut and head cocked slightly. He appeared to be listening for something, but Will could discern nothing save the ambient sounds of the house.

Warthrop turned in his seat and regarded the hallway opening, hand gripping the back of his chair. Then he whirled back over his keyboard.

"Will Henry, let Dr Kearns in the house."

Will looked up in question, but Warthrop was poking at his computer and scowling at his hands.

Setting his stuff aside, Will slipped out of his seat and shuffled towards the front door. He scratched at the back of his head, wondering how the man had even heard his friend outside. He unlocked the front door and swung it open.

On the top step, leaning against the stoop's flaking pillar, was Dr Kearns. He was looking out across the neighborhood, arms loosely crossed about his torso, hands dangling. One held with the butterfly knife from before. At the bottom of the post sat a plastic take-out bag from an Italian restaurant.

Dr Kearns did not move or make any acknowledgement of Will's presence, continuing to stare overtop the dusk-ridden tree line. The knife winked in the setting light as fingers delicately turned the engraved steel over in his hand.

Will rubbed his arm, shifting on his feet. He threw a glance back inside. 

"Come to fetch me, little assistant-apprentice?"

Will stiffened. Kearns still hadn't moved, but the knife was gone.

"Yes, sir," said Will, shoulders relaxing slightly as the man turned slightly to regard him over his shoulder.

"You brought my things upstairs?"

Will nodded.

Dr Kearns turned away at Will's affirmation and bent down to retrieve his bag.

"Most excellent. You are indeed the most worthy of assistants." He winked at the boy. "However, I do wonder of your skills as an apprentice. It _is_ Pellinore that we are speaking of."

The man stepped atop the stoop, boots crunching bits of peeling lacquer and pinestraw. He halted in front of Will, who stood in the doorway. Will moved to the side to allow the man through, but Kearns simply handed his bag over to Will.

"Now there's a good lad. To the dining room, Mr Will!" He clapped his hands and marched inside. "And I shall gather the third member of our tableau!"

Maneuvering the crinkling bag to one hand, Will locked the door behind them, hearing Kearns' overly jovial greeting to Warthrop in the kitchen. Warthrop mumbled something, expelling a small burst of laughter from the other man. Will caught a glimpse of Kearns badgering the doctor out of his chair, who remained stuck to the seat as if glued there.

Placing the bag on the polished dining table, Will opened the heavy damask curtains to let in some of the dwindling light from the floor-to-ceiling windows that ran along the far wall. Then he switched on the overhead lamp.

He heard a growl of outrage from the doctor and not knowing what else to do, Will went back to the kitchen.

"Ah, there he is! Will, you are a smart lad. Tell the doctor that it’s most conducive to his work that he take part in supper with us." Kearns chuckled and cocked his head towards a cross Warthrop, his back facing Kearns. His laptop was conspicuously shut and a couple of papers were strewn on the ground.

The tips of Will's ears burned. He fidgeted. The last thing he wanted to do was raise the man’s ire even more!

But Kearns kept watching him expectedly, so he ventured. "Well sir...you haven't eaten in a while and it’s getting late. So...it'd be much better if we do so since we have the food here?"

Will threw his eyes to his feet when the doctor glared at him over his shoulder, still not turning around to either his assistant or friend.

"Food can wait, can it not? That is precisely why we have inventions like a microwave, Will Henry."

"Oh Pellinore, look at the boy!" Kearns said, that unremitting smile still playing upon his lips. He waved towards Will. "Why, he looks positively starving! As do you."

Warthrop whirled, but a strange gurgling sound jerked him to a stop. He twisted towards Will. Kearns broke out in a face-splitting grin.

Will went red, throwing his arms around his stomach to stifle back his stomach's clamoring. It did not help that whatever Dr Kearns had brought, it had smelled delicious.

His stomach let out another appreciative grumble.

Kearns chuckled. "A sound argument if I have ever heard one! Couldn't have done better myself."

Warthrop threw his hands in the air. "Fine, Jack. We will partake of your fare! Then you will enlighten me on what you have brought into my home."

"All in due time, Pellinore," tutted Kearns. "I wouldn't dream of leaving you in the dark."

Warthrop huffed to himself. "You are doing an extraordinary job proving otherwise."

"Will, would you set the dishes? It wouldn't do for the food to go cold."

With a nod, Will went to the cabinet and grabbed a setting of plates and silverware. He took them to the dining room, placing them at the three seats at the head of the table, along with some napkins. He returned with cups for tea and while he reheated the kettle for another round, the doctor fished around for something in the drawers.

When Will returned to the dining room pot in hand, both men had taken their seats and doled out the food, which were various kinds of linguine. Will put the teapot on the table, tucking a folded cloth beneath it. He ran back to the kitchen for the sugar pot and nearly empty creamer carton.

Will took his place across from Warthrop. The doctor's friend claimed the seat at the head of the table, the two already deep into conversation with each other. Whoever passed out the food already piled Will's plate high with two kinds of pasta and suddenly ravenous, Will reached for his silverware.

"Ah! Little assistant-apprentice! Glad you could join us," said Kearns, breaking off his discussion with Warthrop.

"Why do you keep calling Will Henry that, Jack?"

Dr Kearns leaned his elbow on the table, fork in hand. "It has a nice ring to it, Pellinore."

Snatching his own fork and knife, Will began tackling dinner, cutting his pasta into polite pieces like his mother had taught him. The food was surprisingly good, especially after two weeks of nothing but prepackaged food plus cafeteria lunches. Will was so hungry that he had to consciously slow himself down so he wouldn't lose his manners. This was the very first time that not only would Will be eating with the doctor, but with a complete stranger as well and it unnerved him.

Luckily for him, both men seemed engrossed in each other, paying hardly any attention to Will. Though Will couldn't understand why, he felt relieved.

"How long?"

The doctor looked up, slowly chewing on a mouthful of pasta. He laid down his spoon and fork and took a swig of tea.

"In relation to what?" He leaned back in the elegant chair, fingers holding the rim of his mug.

Kearns’ eyes fell to his plate as he cut his pasta with his fork.

"You know what I mean, Pellinore." He twisted his fork around the pasta, using his spoon to cradle the dangling ends.

Warthrop looked out the window. "Almost two weeks."

"Ah." A pause as he swallowed. "And the research?"

"We returned a month ago from the Everglades. It was a successful trip; it was indeed _Naegleria fowleri_ as I stated over the phone; though the doctors situated there thought it was meningitis despite my claims otherwise. Only after an explosion of two more deaths did they call us to come and test our theories. However, James was completely indisposed when we finally made it back from the two-week sojourn. So I haven't completed our notes for publication." The tea swirled gently in the ceramic. "There were other more...pressing matters."

Warthrop frowned and then clinked his mug upon the table. Snagging his spoon and fork, he began attacking his food. He ate as if he hadn't had a full meal in days.

The doctor’s frantic movements made Will uneasy. It added to the undercurrent between the two doctors, though he had no idea what they were discussing, only its relation to the doctor's work and his father.

Also, the two men’s choice in utensils inadvertently set him on edge. He looked at his own knife and fork, then back at the two men eating comfortably with their spoons and forks. It felt as though they were watching him, even though they not once looked in his direction after he sat down. His hand shook and pasta plopped onto his plate.

"What happened to James?"

The doctor flinched, spoon clattering against the porcelain. Kearns had asked it casually as if Will's father merely forgot to turn up for dinner.

"He is no longer with us.”

"That is fairly obvious, Pellinore. I am insulted you think I wouldn't notice your lack of a guard dog nipping at my heels."

Warthrop carefully laid down his fork and spoon, the metal thudding dully upon the wood. "Well, Kearns, he is not here. He is gone."

"Is that how you're going to treat your loyal assistant? By saying he's 'no longer with us' rather than what he truly is? Why is that?” asked Kearns, leaning on his hand. “It's as if by not saying the thing, you are refusing to accept it. Like you hope one day he'll come waltzing through that front door. Burying yourself in this fairy-tale that is nothing but wishful thinking. He is dead, Pellinore."

Warthrop slapped him across the face, the room ringing with sound of flesh striking flesh. Will's head buzzed, the ferocity of the action scorched in his memory. Only hard exhalations filled the room as Warthrop fell back in his seat, eyes hooked unseeing to his lap. Kearns' small smile remained stranded upon his lips, but Will could not discern his eyes. They remained on Warthrop.

No one spoke and Will fiddled with his food. His ears pounded; he no longer felt like eating.

"It's right in front of you, Pellinore," Kearns said softly. "If you would but accept it."

"Do you think I haven't?" Pellinore gestured over to Will, eyes burning as they snapped towards his friend. "I have his son! _His son!_ Do you think I do not realize this every single day?"

"Have you though?"

The doctor exploded out of his seat, limbs aquiver.

"What is your reason for intruding upon my home, Kearns? I didn’t ask for this. You are always stopping by unannounced and I'm starting to understand why James was always upset. This isn’t why I leave my home open for you."

Pellinore was breathing harshly, eyes cast down upon his friend. Whatever he saw there sent him into an agitated frenzy and he began to pace.

"Then I have no reason to be here," Kearns stated slowly. "Unless you would like to specify why you do leave your home open to my presence?"

Pellinore stiffened, stopping in front of the elongated window. Light emblazoned the edges of his ragged form, reducing it to an obscure blackened shadow; it wavered.

"I didn't invite you here for this." He spoke towards the window as if in a confessional, voice small but steady.

Will curled in his seat and peeked over at the doctor's friend. Though he was smiling, it did not reach his eyes. Completely and utterly dark, it contrasted with the doctor's, infinitely deep and unwholesome as a void.

"And I wasn't expecting _this_." Kearns leaned back in his chair, draping an arm over the back.

"Neither was I! Do you think I wanted this to happen?"

Kearns' eyes narrowed. "I’m not referring to James, Pellinore. I’m referring to you."

Pellinore marched out of the ensnaring light, hands shackled behind his back. He halted in front of Kearns. "I can handle myself with ease, Kearns. I do not need you telling me otherwise."

Kearns's eyes went cold. The smile vanished, dragged downwards. Though Kearns remained seated, Pellinore took a step back at his friend's sudden shift in demeanor.

"Shall I take my leave then, Warthrop? After all, you have been handling yourself exceedingly well. Don't you think I haven't noticed your well-stocked larder and the robust health of both you and your new charge here," he said sardonically. "You call yourself a scientist, but you refuse to acknowledge the situation around you. I’m not telling you how to go about your business but when a child becomes cognizant of a deplorable situation, even you have to open your eyes."

At this, Warthrop shot a startled look towards Will. He grimaced. Then his gaze fell to his empty chair.

"I didn't ask you to leave."

Kearns barked out a trill of laughter. It scoured the air, sending goosebumps crawling over the boy’s arms.

"You certainly aren't doing a good job saying otherwise." Kearns shifted in this seat, crossing his ankles. "Is this about my package? Is that what you want? Merely something to distract you?"

The hairs on the back of Will’s neck rose. There was a subtle nuance to how he rounded off his queries that lent a lethal edge to them.

Incensed, Pellinore rounded on Kearns. Then he deflated. His eyes roved over his friend; fell. He threw a shaky hand into his damp hair, the other gripping tightly against the back of his chair.

"It's not that, John..." His eyes clenched shut, teeth worrying his bottom lip. "It's just. I don't know what to do. There's so much that I must finish and attend to and I don't know how to go about it." He turned away.

Kearns stared at Pellinore, before letting his eyes fall shut. His chest rose as he inhaled; fell as he released the captured breath. He stood and took a step before the doctor, eyes fixed upon his downcast head.

"Are you finished, Pellinore?"

The doctor glanced up, confusion writ upon his worn features. Then he shook his head and waved distractedly at the table.

"Yes, I am quite full." Pellinore’s arms crossed around his middle.

"It's in the fridge."

Pellinore regarded Kearns, whose smile had returned to his lips. The doctor rubbed at his eyes in exasperation.

"Of course."

"Did you not think of that?"

"No." He sighed. "I was merely frustrated that it had disappeared and you along with it. I did not think both you and it would be situated among the consumables."

Kearns chuckled, shifting on his feet. His eyes fell, hooded beneath his lids. "If you are done, we can take it down to the basement, yes?"

"That would be appropriate." Pellinore looked over to Will. "However, I did promise Will Henry I would introduce him more to James' work. He shall attend as well."

"I wouldn't expect anything less. After all, he's your assistant-apprentice."

Warthrop nodded. "He has been...quite indispensable thus far."

Two pairs of eyes now fell on Will. Nervous, he tried to burrow himself deeper into his oversized hoodie.

"Will Henry, can you tidy up and then join us in the basement? It will be essential in your duties to me that you do so.”

Will nodded and the two men left, Kearns leading the way. Will scraped the dishes into the Styrofoam containers, doing his best not to mix the separate pastas. His hands shook slightly and some of the noodles fell over the rim.

The mercurial shifts between the doctor and his friend had left Will restless, and he was thankful for the brief respite. Doing simple mundane tasks without the presence of Dr Warthrop often helped to calm his querulous thoughts.

It upset Will when Dr Kearns brought up the topic of his father, especially when he had already informed him outside of his father's absence. He didn't understand why the man needed to bring it up again when it was clear what had happened. But to see the doctor's anger at the inquiry reassured Will of the validity of his own feelings; barbs choked deep within both of their hearts. Sometimes Will felt that the doctor did not really care for anything other than his work. Though shocking to see the doctor to lose control, it helped ease the ache inside of Will to see that someone was feeling what he was as well.

Placing the soiled dishes in the sink for later and the leftovers in the fridge, he hurried down the steps into the basement, lest he be yelled at for taking too long.

The room was lit with raucous light, the doctor's huge lamp looming over the gleaming dissection table. Both men were hanging over the doctor's desk by the stairs, talking quietly to each other and engrossed in a sheaf of paper in Warthrop's hands. The cooler remained unopened on the massive table in the center of the small room.

"I am here, sir," announced Will softly, standing at the foot of the stairs.

"So you are!" Kearns responded with amusement. All traces of his previous mood were wiped free of his roguish features, looking no different than an English dandy ready for an evening about the town.

He whirled around, hands flicking towards the boy. "Ah, but you much too short for the table! Pellinore, that simply won't do. How will he see what I have procured?"

Warthrop tossed the sheaf back on the desk. He rubbed at his unshaven face.

"There's an old stool somewhere. James could never reach the top specimen shelf."

Kearns snapped his fingers. "Ah yes! I remember now. Will, would you go and fetch the stool? If I remember correctly, it should be in the closet upstairs. First guest bedroom. There's a lad."

Pellinore shot Kearns a look. Kearns simply smiled back. Will marched back up the stairs to find his father's old stool.

"Why ever would you know something like that?" asked Warthrop, walking past to don on a pair of light blue latex gloves near the steel sink.

"I remember quite a many things, Pellinore." Kearns leaned back against the tabletop, bracing his weight with both elbows and regarding the ceiling.

Warthrop considered the man next to him. "Are you not going to put on a pair of gloves?"

The man looked up at the doctor before returning his gaze back to the ceiling. "Not at all, my dear Pellinore. I brought that for you. I have no further interest in it myself."

They waited, listening for the pattering of small feet overhead and saying nothing more to each other. Warthrop held the cooler in his hands, thin fingers drumming the chilled container as he regarded it through unfocused eyes, mind drifting elsewhere.

Ears picked up the quick-footed pace of Warthrop's charge, directing both of them to the stairs where a flushed Will Henry emerged with a battered old stool clasped to his chest. Though it was a small stool, the boy still had to crane his head around it to step carefully down the stairs.

"There, Will Henry. Opposite of me, set the stool there," directed Warthrop, pointing. "Now, get the green notebook from the table over there...yes that one—no, Will Henry! That one, yes. Bring it here with a pen."

Will followed his instruction and scrambled atop the stool. Kearns had his back against the table but his eyes followed Will as he did what Warthrop said. Popping above the waist-high table, Will could easily see into the shallow basin that was the doctor's examination table.

"Ah, that won't do," observed Warthrop. "You will need gloves and a mask."

Kearns grinned up at Warthrop. "He won't. My gift isn't contagious unless you decide to ingest it. You aren't still hungry are you, little Will?" Kearns chuckled. "Even then, they've been dead for quite a while."

Pellinore harrumphed and instructed Will not to touch anything. Then he dragged the cooler closer. Fingers trembled with excitement and unlatched the clasp at the front. His eyes shone bright and the edges of his lips quirked upwards as his mouth fell open, breathless with his anticipation.

The lid flicked open and it bounced against the plastic side with a loud _thump!_

Warthrop's face froze as he gaped into the box. His delight from seconds before curdled, before dissolving into outright indignation.

"Kearns, what is the meaning of this?" he snarled, scraping the man's name with his teeth.

Kearns chuckled in response. Warthrop spun his head towards his friend who met him with a languid turn of his own, leonine hair brushing his shoulders.

"Whatever do you mean?"

"You know very well what I mean!" Pellinore shoved the cooler at Kearns, jabbing him in the arm with the plastic. "These are common roundworms. The most commonly distributed parasitic type of worm there is! Doctors everywhere deal with these things, even in the most mediocre of third-world outposts!"

Kearns lazily regarded the doctor, from his flushed countenance to his crossed arms, gloved fingertips tapping a relentless rhythm upon his stained labcoat. Then he flicked a glance towards the container.

"Perhaps not so common, Pellinore? Or are you losing your touch?"

Warthrop grew red, bristling at Kearns' reply. His arms fell, hands clenching and unclenching into fists at his sides.

"I am not losing anything, Jack," he barked. Warthrop snatched back his icebox. "I am very aware that these are no more than roundworms. Which may I point out that I have two specimen jars already of and do not require another to waste my valuable time."

"You wound me, Pellinore! You know I wouldn't dream of doing such a thing. I am merely pointing out that perhaps in your eagerness you may have forgotten something."

The doctor glared at his friend. "I highly doubt it. After all, I am the foremost researcher in the field of aberrant biology," Warthrop replied haughtily.

Kearns laughed outright at that. "That's not the bit you’re missing."

The doctor raised a brow and peered dubiously into the container. Suddenly, he rocked back with a gasp, eyes large in his shallow face.

"Is it—?"

Kearns tilted his head up at Pellinore's questioning gaze. He grinned wolfishly.

The doctor's brows rose in astonishment. He spun back to his gift, nearly thrusting his face into the box.

"How is it possible?" he breathed. His body radiated with fervent energy, like heat roiling off pavement.

"That question I shall leave to you, my esteemed monstrumologist," smirked Kearns. He waved a hand towards the cooler. "I came across that recently. Texas. Galveston area. Came from a victim of a drug cartel cross-fire. I interviewed the boy’s parents afterwards and it turns out he was a recent immigrant, having come with his mother and grandmother after the father paid for their transit from Puerto Rico."

"How long did he reside in the area?"

"Perhaps a month.”

"Ah, so this most likely is an acquisition from Puerto Rico, given the incubation and life cycle requirements," murmured Warthrop before returning to Kearns. "No other travels?"

"Not according to his immediate family. They couldn't afford it nor had reason to. He was only twelve."

Pellinore thrust a hand into the box but stopped short, taking notice of his assistant with his notebook under his arm and twiddling the pen in his hands.

"What are you doing, Will Henry? You are my assistant! You should be taking dictation, not letting your mind gambol amongst daydreams when there is important work to be done!"

Ashamed, Will opened the notebook with clumsy hands. He was unsure of what to write down, or even when to start. The doctor never specified, so he had been waiting for guidance on what Dr Warthrop required. But apparently he'd have to ask the man himself…which Will didn’t want to do when the man was glaring at him like an angry schoolteacher. 

"What should I write down, sir?"

Warthrop jerked a stained glove out of the box and gestured impatiently at the notebook. "You have transcribed your father's notes all week, have you not? Have you learned nothing? Or did you just type all that out without thinking? I have no need for an assistant that can be replaced easily with a machine, Will Henry! It is precisely why we are blessed with a brain and I expect you to fully utilize it."

Will whipped away, stung by the doctor's censure. It wasn't as if he asked questions for fun! He simply didn't know what the doctor expected from him.

As usual, no matter how much he tried to listen, he never seemed to do anything right. He was also doubly mortified that a stranger he'd never met until today had to witness his scolding.

"Sorry, sir," mumbled Will into his hoodie, hand tight around his pen. "I just wanted to know what you wanted from me, so I can do it correctly."

The doctor exhaled. "You are new to the requirements of lab work, so it is understandable that you wish for clarification. However, it is imperative you ask earlier before we begin if you have any questions regarding the task. I do not like to be interrupted by inquiries than can be addressed before we are enveloped in the research, Will Henry. Is that understood?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good boy. Now, you shall jot down anything that is related to the case at hand. Location, type of specimen, measurements, habitat, time of arrival, etc. If I say it more than likely it needs to be recorded. I will repeat myself, but this will be the only time I will do so. Are you ready?"

Will nodded mutely. "Yes, sir."

Warthrop frowned and crossed his arms behind his back. A rust colored streak appeared on his coat front, adding to the multitudinous stains already present.

The doctor began pacing, going over what Dr Kearns had informed him as well as several pieces of information he inferred himself. He paused in-between lengthy discourses, ensuring his new assistant had properly retrieved all the material onto the lined pages. Then he would resume pacing, booted feet swerving back to the opposite direction when he either came to end of the basement or when he came to the crossed ankles of Dr Kearns barring his way.

"Specimen is tacky. Similar to other specimens unaffected by growths or an infestation of worms, though this is the first recorded case thus far."

Will paused. "Sir?"

"Ah, yes! The first recorded case, Will Henry! Roundworms are known the world over for being a digestive tract parasite, residing in one's intestines in their adulthood. This is the first time they have been found elsewhere! Marvelous, in fact. Do they have a protein coating to allow for such a thing to happen? Or is this a separate species altogether? They look no different than any other roundworm I have come across, so I am most curious." The doctor tapped his masked chin with his dirtied glove, voice falling into a murmur.

"Ah. I wouldn't do that, Pellinore."

The doctor jerked his hand away. "Ah, yes, you are quite right." Warthrop chucked his gloves and mask into an old dustbin under the table and immediately went to wash his hands and chin.

"Whatever shall you do without me?"

"The same as I always done. I’m not dead yet," retorted Pellinore, scrubbing his face dry and snapping on a new set of latex.

Kearns looked away, eyeing Pellinore's cluttered desk of notes.

The doctor, however, came over to his assistant to check over his progress. He hummed through his mask, flipping through several pages of neatly formed notes. "Could be organized more proficiently but for now, this is thoroughly adequate." He squinted.

"However, Will Henry, I will not abide such grievous spelling errors. If you aren't sure, speak up! Ascariasis is spelled as thus." He wrote out it overtop of Will's misspelling in an incredibly cramped and atrocious handwriting, only after scratching out the offending misspelling.

"Also, your descriptors can do with some work. It's as if you haven't seen the specimen Dr Kearns had provided!"

"I haven't though, sir."

The doctor looked absolutely befuddled. "You haven't?"

"No, sir. You had it with you the entire time."

"Ah. Well then." He reached over and dragged the cooler over to Will's side of the examination table. "I wish to dissect it, so let us remove the specimen onto the table. Now Will Henry, I expect you to record everything you witness. Color, scent, size, amount. As well as anything I tell you to. It is the mark of a good assistant that not only do you follow what I say, but you are able to create your own inquiries and observations as well. They may prove relevant later."

The doctor took a couple steps away from Will standing near the foot of the table across from Kearns, who remained as he was, watching the two over his shoulder.

"Now Will Henry, I shall reiterate the importance of my instruction," Warthrop warned as he thrust both hands into the cooler, standing tiptoe for better leverage. "Roundworms are transferred by hand to mouth contact. To ensure one is not infected it will do well to remember each parasite's mode of propagation and migration. Follow my lead and you shall remain safe."

The doctor grunted, shoulders rolling in their sockets as he maneuvered the specimen out of the container.

"Ahhh, there we are!"

He removed it gently, palms leaking crimson. Will's eyes shot to the rivulets of deep red where dribbles of it coagulated into one misshapen mass in the doctor's cupped hands, a macabre offering strung with silken threads.

_Drip._

A splotch of rose adorned the virgin steel.

_Drip._

A bead for the first.

And gently, oh so gently, the doctor's sure hands delivered the gift atop the table, thin fingers slipping delicately from beneath his prize. It wept onto the table, expelling a scarlet halo of discarded blood. Some smeared the tips of the doctor's hands, a kiss bestowed.

A small stomach lay on the table.

Will knew what it was. Seen pictures of it in his school textbook. Laid upon the table it was instantly recognizable.

And so very small.

Perhaps that was due to the explosive expellant of white, shining strings from both ends. A limitless mass twisting upon themselves much like the linguine that had been at their dinner table moments before.

Dotted with red. Bloating the stomach with its sheer copiousness.

Will's stomach lurched, boiling over with acid. 

A boy just like him, they said.

A boy's stomach.

Filled with worms.

Like the noodles that currently filled his.

Will stumbled off his stool, tripping backwards. His stomach heaved and he vomited at his feet. Shaking, he tried to stabilize himself but all he saw was an endless pile of bloodstained worms.

_Worms…why did it have to be worms?_

His head swam, blood surging upwards before wrenching him under. He fell, swallowed into the unfeeling darkness.

***


	8. Capitulation

The stool scraped against the tile as the boy toppled over. In an instant, Kearns flew around the blood-stained table as the doctor stumbled back, wide eyes stark behind his mask.

A fetid sourness rent the confined space as the child disgorged his dinner, expelling it across the floor in a surge of disemboweled worms.

Both the doctor and the child recoiled from the wreckage. An arm flung out, seizing the edge of the dissection table, bolstering the doctor as he watched Will collapse against his friend’s chest. Strong arms braced tightly around Will’s trembling form, collecting the child as he fell limp, feet dragging against stone.

Gently, Kearns leaned him against the cool floor, slipping his arm from behind Will. His hand removed a handkerchief from his back pocket, swiping the beads of sweat that ran down the child's clammy forehead and wiped his slightly open mouth. He tucked the soiled cloth back into his pocket and sitting upon his knees, took the boy's legs and elevated them atop his own.

Once Will’s face returned to a rosy hue and his breathing evened out, the man relaxed and put the boy's legs back on the ground. A breath and the man sat back on his haunches, one hand on his thigh and the other running though his hair.

"First time?" Kearns turned towards his friend.

But the doctor hadn’t moved, still staring at his young assistant lying prone upon his basement floor. At the even voice, he snapped out of his reverie with a shake of his head and lurched off the table.

"Yes. I’ve only the child for a few weeks. It is...quite disappointing." Dark eyes regarded the boy. "I shall endeavor to keep a bucket."

The man said nothing.

Oddly discomfited by his friend's prolonged stare, the doctor shifted in place. "What? James was similar. However, he quickly overcame his aversion towards the macabre and began to see the importance and beauty of the task. His son has been proving useful and I hoped he would resemble James in that aspect as well." The doctor frowned at the boy, who though he regained his coloring, remained stubbornly asleep.

His friend bowed his head and chuckled quietly to himself.

"What do you find so amusing?"

Kearns cast a grin towards the doctor. "You should be very pleased then."

Something palpable hung in the space between them, but Warthrop stubbornly waved it aside with an agitated flick of his wrist. "Not in this sense."

Kearns looked back down on the boy. "As much as your laboratory could do with some homely touches, I don't think you desire this sort of ornament, Pellinore," he quipped. Getting down on one knee, Kearns hefted the child over his shoulder, one arm braced against his legs to hold him in place.

Will stirred slightly, lashes fluttering against pale cheeks. His eyes cracked open but clenched shut under the onslaught of blinding light. Instinctively, boy hid his face away.

"Why must you always pick up my assistants like a sack of potatoes, Kearns?"

Kearns winked. "As charming as they are, I have no interest in carrying them across the threshold."

Warthrop’s face twisted in distaste. Kearns let out a bark of laughter before marching away up the stairs with his burden. However, he paused upon the first step and turned around.

"Oh and Pellinore? You should clean your assistant's mess while I'm gone."

The doctor threw his hands in the air and stomped towards his sink, flinging on the tap until it gushed steaming water. Dr Kearns left the basement with its sullen occupant plying obscenities under his breath.

Night had begun to seep through the creaking house, tucking away into the dingy corners and crevices. The man’s footfalls echoed hollowly throughout the vacant floor, heralding his presence. Cast from the blinding pit of fluorescence, his eyes gradually adjusted to the illuminated patches of sunlight that hung upon the stairwell.

On the landing Kearns paused momentarily, wondering which room was the boy's. Given that the Warthrop household only had three bedrooms, he figured it was whatever room wasn't the guestroom or Pellinore's. A glance into the room directly across from the stairwell marked it as his: the neatly made bed had his rifle case laid neatly across the top and his bulky travel-pack propped against the side.

He went into the adjacent room at the end of the hall and deposited the boy upon the worn coverlet. The boy’s eyes cracked open slightly and Kearns straightened, regarding the child. Sluggishly his eyes fell shut again and he turned his head to the side, burrowing his face into the blanket.

Bathed in hues of hidebound oranges and reds, the room inundated its contents with a dying glow. Light flecked off the tasteful wallpaper in shards of burnt copper, catching in the man’s flaxen hair.

The room was a simple one, containing a small fireplace to Kearns’ right against the wall that flanked his own room. It was bereft of any personal affects. Overall, the room had a slight feminine touch as detailed in the soft rocking chair under the lacy window. But nothing bespoke of a boy belonging to the room, much less any sort of child.

Kearns rubbed his chin as he surveyed the room before allowing his eyes to fall back to Will.

Even in the piercing light of sunset, dark circles enveloped the boy's eyes and dusked his sunken cheeks. Kearns bent over the boy, a hair's breadth away from his prostrate form. Flat grey eyes took in the new clothes and his extremely oversized sweatshirt, the sleeves completely encasing his small hands. Only the tips of his fingers poked through the slightly burnt cuffs.

His gaze flicked upwards and regarded the fluffed pillow. Then back at the child.

The man unraveled himself and turned to leave. He stopped upon the threshold. His shoulders tensed, the silky fabric tensing beneath the scarlet glare from the exposed window. He twisted slightly, a curious eye considering the boy once more.

A beat; then two.

Irked, Kearns strode back into the boy's bedside. He bent down and slipped the shoes off of the child's feet, placing them under the bed. Slipping an arm under Will, he dragged him up onto the pillow while tugging the quilt. He grunted and wrenched free the fabric from the bed, tossing it atop the boy. It fell half on his face.

Scowling, the man pulled it down. Eyes narrowed at the soundly sleeping boy with his scrawny features and unkempt hair.

Finally satisfied, Kearns made a steady egress into his own room. A similar rocking chair, a pair to the boy's, stood forlornly in the corner. Kearns shrugged out of his silk vest, draping it over its carved back. Rolling up his shirtsleeves, he buttoned them in place over his elbows and knelt to examine his pack. He removed a thick plastic folder and placed it on his bed.

Getting to his feet, he examined his rifle case. Releasing the snaps and unzipping the sturdy leather, he found his Winchester as he left it, polished to a shimmering finish, each filigreed curve and twist unmarred and well-cared for. He snapped the case shut and set it further upon the patterned counterpane.

Catching his folder in one hand, Kearns tucked it under his arm and made his way back down the stairs. He took in the recently cleaned rooms on the first floor, the maintained yet bare kitchen and the lone child's backpack slowly being consumed with Warthrop’s unrelenting paperwork. Then he stepped back into the basement.

Like a child, as soon as he heard the tell-tale gait of his friend, Pellinore rounded upon him as he dismounted the last step.

"There you are! What took you, Jack?" His mask was pulled down revealing his friend's agitated features.

"Ah, I was just observing your charge. Most curious. Are you sure you didn’t find him in your cupboard under the stairs? Apparently the place to house lost orphan boys nowadays."

Warthrop drew back, a bewildered look upon his face. "What the devil are you talking about? Will Henry most certainly did not emerge from some closet under the stairs."

"Could have fooled me. Especially with your overgrown cardigan on him."

Warthrop clucked and went back to his sink, shoving his hands into a fresh pair of gloves. "He had no jacket, so I lent him mine. It’s sufficient enough."

"However did it obtain those scorch marks, Pellinore? Those are recent."

The doctor stiffened, then snapped the latex tight against his wrists. "That is of no concern to you, Jack."

Kearns sidled over to Will's old spot, nudging the stool underneath the table with his boot. He leaned an elbow on the edge and clasped his hands together, folio still under his arm.

"Oh, I do believe is my concern, Pellinore. That particular jacket wasn't easy to obtain."

The doctor huffed over to Kearns to say something but his mouth fell shut at his friend's smug look. He jerked up his mask.

"It was an accident, Kearns. Wipe that grin off of your face."

"Oh ho! Is that how you're going to explain away the jacket I fought two bouncers for? I’m hurt." Kearns eyed his friend beneath his lashes.

"I swear I’ll dismiss you from my lab if you are going to be annoying. I’m down my assistant and I don’t wish to be interrupted any longer. By yourself or my assistant's weak-willed stomach."

Kearns smiled at his companion. "As you wish."

The doctor narrowed his eyes at his friend’s response then picked up his scalpel. He paused, rolling the tool in his hand. Then he glanced at his friend. Pellinore tried reaching for the organ but his agitation overtook him. He spun towards Kearns.

"What the devil do you keep smiling about?"

The man merely raised one brow in query. Pellinore's fist tightened around his scalpel. His eyes fell to the folio tucked beneath his arm. "What have you brought with you?"

Kearns glanced down. His brows leapt in surprise as if the item simply appeared beneath his arm.

"Why, I am not sure! Whatever it is, it can surely wait. You do have your research to delve into, my dear Pellinore."  His lips quirked in amusement.

Pellinore clenched his eyes shut. His nostrils flared as he released a stream of air.

"Please." He ground it out as if he had a mouthful of rocks.

"Oh?"

"God damn it, John! What did you bring with you?"

Kearns eyed the scalpel in Pellinore's agitated fist. He smirked. "I do believe you are trying to disembowel me. If you had it in you, that is."

Pellinore deflated, sagging against the dissection table. He held his head in his free hand. "Just...tell me Jack. Please. I am too tired for this."

"Why didn't you say so? Here."

Kearns passed the folder over to Pellinore and he took it warily. Laying down his scalpel with a dull clink, he unzipped the sealed folder. Several stapled packets of documents fell into his gloved hand.

"There should be five in there. The dissertation regarding the case, our subsequent interviews with the family, the entire family's travel and medical history that we could uncover, as well as both my and the coroner's disposition."

Pellinore looked up at that. "You postulated on the roundworms?"

"Of course. I couldn’t let you have all the fun. I do know how much you enjoy my ideas after all."

"I do not. I am merely surprised since you informed me that you have no interest in the creatures."

"No _further_ interest," Kearns corrected. "I've done what I desired. I am more intent on what you come up with."

Pellinore snorted. He leaned over his friend to chuck the folder on his desktop.

"I shall peruse that later. I want my mind free of anyone else’s suppositions and theories."

Pellinore cracked his knuckles and scooped up his scalpel. He glanced at Kearns then around the lab. "Have you seen Will Henry's notebook?"

"If you are about to ask me if I can record your ostentatious lectures, however scintillating they may be, I’m afraid I must decline. I have no desire to take James’ most cherished spot."

Pellinore glared at Kearns, who merely took in his friend's displeasure with a dispassionate gaze.

"Fine," said Pellinore. "You can stand around as you've always done, as unhelpful as a barstool."

"Ah, that’s where you’re wrong. A barstool is very helpful under the right hands and in the right circumstance."

Pellinore merely stared at him with a blank face, one hand holding the surgical knife and the other grabbing hold of the bleeding organ, looking for all the world like a butcher with his slab of meat.

"Oh pooh, you are no fun." Kearns sighed. "I shall leave you to it then and see what interesting tidbits you can discern. Luckily for you, this particular child’s stomach is only full of worms."

Turning from his companion, the doctor dragged the small stomach over, leaving behind a path of clotted blood swept into disarray by the multitudinous worms. He prodded it with one dexterous finger, upending it slightly and rotating it around.

"Protruding from both the duodenum and the lower esophageal chamber here...each worm roughly two to five millimeters in diameter, standard for roundworms..." The doctor quickly flicked the worms upwards with a finger as he ticked them off soundlessly under his breath. "There are thirty-six worms from the lower pylorus. Hmmm."

Pellinore spun the stomach on the table with his hand and immediately counted the worms spilling from the limp tissue of the child's esophagus.

"Only sixteen here. That deficit can be explained by the sphincter but it is truly amazing that they managed to push through the muscle," pondered the doctor. "Though that could be attributed to post-mortem stressors that allowed them to exit through. The real question is how many there currently are in total."

Carefully brushing aside the pale worms, he gently sliced through the upper dermis, the scalpel cutting effortlessly through the multifarious layers of tissue and muscle that enveloped the entire organ. The doctor took his time, hand was trembling slightly. Beads of sweat dotted his forehead and he swiped them away while his friend observed the process with bland interest.

He cut a continual line from the top of the stomach to the end, allowing the blade to puncture through the layers but no further as not to damage the parasites within. He reached the end with an audible intake of breath. He set aside his tool with a slight clatter.

Grey eyes followed the movement, flitting between the doctor's hands and his enthused face, contained behind the surgical mask.

Warthrop slipped a finger into the incision, gently prying the two halves apart. Gathering the separated folds, he opened the organ to reveal the contents, his avid gaze as enchanted as a child on his birthday. He gasped and a sickening scent of acidic decay effused the entire room.  The doctor thrust his face closer to the specimen despite the offensive smell, nose nearly touching the congealing surface.

"Jack...these have to be a foot long at least! Look, they had to twist around themselves in order to fit. It's a miracle the child was able to live so long with such mature specimens contained in so minuscule an environment!" He craned his neck over the tableau, angling his head so he could examine them better. Using his forefinger, he prodded the drab muscular wall and dislodged some of the worms that were stuck to it.

With quick efficiency he untangled the worms and placed them to his left, fully extending their varying lengths in neat order. Fingers dug around the child's stomach wrenching loose the morass of worms swathed in curdles of blood.

"Magnificent! Intact and in their prime. How astounding they were able to inhabit this child's stomach despite the highly acidic environment. More beautiful than anything else like it! Their bodies are still repelling both the acid and the blood...see how it rolls off the pale flesh! Unmarred, Jack! How do you think they evolved such a defense? Were they about to migrate into the child's intestinal tract or do they propagate in the stomach itself? Marvelous—if my hypothesis is correct in that they must retain the lipid layer from their eggs in order to abide the corrosiveness of hydrochloric acid!"

After removing all forty-three worms, the doctor laughed in triumph and snapped off his gloves, tossing them underneath the table. He tore down his mask and stretched his arms behind his head with a boyish grin before turning to Kearns, bright eyes lit with wondrous joy beneath his overgrown hair.

"A most brilliant and truly astounding find, Jack!" he exclaimed, his pale face aglow beneath the blinding lamplight. Warthrop spun on his heel, marching around his friend and snagged the green notebook and a ruler from his desktop.

"More beautiful than a meadow in springtime, more gorgeous than the rarest of jewels and we are the first to encounter it! Like the explorers of old, in this world where humanity believes there is no more marvels to discover—only build! Perhaps you and I shall be witness to the birth of another of God's creations."

He thumped the notebook on the table and turned the page clumsily before dashing off again. He snatched a ballpoint off his desk before rounding back around Kearns to his prize. He leaned over it, breath whisper soft, a caress upon the pearlescent and rubied treasure before him. It reflected in his dark eyes, shimmering.

The lure of the work yanked him under, as addicting and euphoric as the rush of an opiate's drag, alighting upon the senses. His fingers flew across the page as he jotted down cramped measurements of the organ and the worms. The ruler quaked in his hand in harmony with the ceaseless numbers and calculations that sprung upon his lips.

All night the doctor worked continuously, taking refuge in the recesses of his own mind and the distraction before him. And all through the night his friend continued to watch, having fallen away to his friend’s most singular concentration.

The doctor might have flayed open and dissected the enigma before him but so was he, beneath a pair of stormy grey eyes.

 

***

 

Will Henry groaned, slowly pulled back into consciousness's unrelenting grasp, demanding he wake up and he wake up _now_. Will rolled to his side. Rather than feeling rested, he felt like he'd been pummeled in the stomach and clocked upside the head. If he felt in a particularly morbid mood—not to say he wasn’t—it felt like someone cut him open and wrung out his gut with their hands.

Will rubbed at his eyes, dislodging the sleep from his uncomprehending eyes. He turned slightly, regarding the pale cream wainscoting flanking his bed. Will blinked, then stared blankly at the ceiling. Scrunching up his face, Will looked again at the pale green wallpaper and the recessed paneling blankly for a few more moments.

Suddenly his mind snapped and he rocketed upwards, flinging the unfamiliar coverlet off his body. He flailed and rolled out of bed onto all fours.

This wasn’t the doctor’s house! And this wasn’t his room!

Will scrambled onto his feet, tripping on the rug in his haste.

His heart clamored in his chest, pounding maddeningly upon his ribcage. Fleeing the unknown room, Will nearly careened into opposite wall, barely missing the little decorative end-table banished against it. Heaving for breath, Will scrabbled to his feet. He glanced to the open hallway before him, then back towards to the strange room. Then back down the hall with its familiar open-air stairwell, the worn bannister and the wrinkled Persian rug.

He took a step into the hall, past the room. Then Will looked over the railing to the familiar floor below. Immediately the high-strung anxiety leaked out of him and he slumped over the handrail with shuddering breaths.

Will felt incredibly stupid for reacting as he did, once he extracted itself from the buzzing web that had engulfed his mind. How did he not even notice? He was the one that had prepared and cleaned the bedrooms last week, seen them countless times before, even seen them yesterday when figuring out which room to house Dr Warthrop's friend.

Curling his fingers in frustration, Will pressed his fist against his forehead, eyes clenched shut.

_What was wrong with him?_

A sharp click tore him from his spiraling thoughts. Will jerked upright, hands twisting around the railing. To his left, the bathroom door opened at the end of the hall, drenching the chilly air with churning steam. Will stiffened as a looming figure padded out of the dark room. The sparse morning light rolled off damp golden hair as the doctor's friend emerged from the shadows, hand scrubbing his hair dry.

Will sagged in relief but froze when he didn't hear the man return to his room. He remained where he was and Will could feel the man’s eyes studying him hanging over the railing like a skinned cat. Will swallowed, then peeked over his shoulder.

As he expected, the man was observing him, his feline eyes half-closed and towel hung about his neck covering some of his bare chest. Thankfully, he had a pair of flannels on but unlike the doctor, his feet were completely bare.

"My my, it seems even our delightful assistant-apprentice keeps early hours as well. Pellinore's doing no doubt." Kearns fluffed up the back of his hair with his towel before leaning against the doorjamb. He brushed something off his arm and peered down the stairwell.

Will's head felt a bit fuzzy. Last thing he remembered was that he ate an early dinner. It certainly did not feel like he slept at all, much less fully for the first time in weeks. He regarded the warm light that filtered from the vestibule below.

"Early, sir?"

Kearns shot him a theatrically surprised look before stroking his chin, head raised to the ceiling. "Why I do believe it is morning, if I recall correctly."

Will turned away, feeling a strange pull towards both snorting at the man's behavior and yelling in annoyance. However, he couldn’t figure out what happened last night and there was no way he’d ask the doctor. So he tread the lesser of the two evils.

"What happened yesterday?" he asked.

Kearns smiled mischievously. "Ah yes. I was wondering if you remembered your little performance last night. You took an interesting turn Mr Henry, much to our doctor's displeasure. With the way he jumped at your inexpedient vomiting, you'd think he hasn't dealt with children before! I'd say you gave him quite the fright." Kearns laughed merrily.

Will colored and shoved his face into his hands.

Now he remembered. How could he have forgotten? The plethora of worms that resembled too much of his dinner stuffed inside of --

No! No!

The boy willed himself not to picture the glistening organ with its protrusion of alabaster worms but they were open for purview and he couldn't shut away the scorched image from his brain. His stomach fisted itself and Will doubled over, pushing the railing into his gut to ease the pain.

"Ah, I wouldn’t do that. Any further and you might topple over the edge, Mr Henry," said Kearns, breaking Will out of his self-imposed reverie. "As agile as I am, I don’t believe even I have the capability to catch you at the bottom of the stairs!"

Will straightened and wiped at his face. He remembered falling over in the basement and stole a glance at the young man.

"You caught me?"

Kearns’ expression fell shut and he removed himself from the doorjamb.

"If only you are worth catching, little Will. And seeing you aren't endowed with a stomach full of parasites, then I wouldn't say so."

Will’s features fell, unsure of what to make of the man's statement. But other pressing matters made itself known, tamping down his confusion. Will fidgeted with the frayed ends of his sweatshirt, wondering how to address his current predicament.

Seeing the once-still boy now fiddling with his clothes and shuffling his toes against the rug, the man raised a brow at the child's restlessness.

"It's a little too early for dancing, Will. Perhaps it is your way of telling me something? Charades?" Kearns clapped his hands. "How delightful! Shall I take a guess?" He cupped his chin in one hand, the other drumming his waist.

Will fidgeted harder in his distress. He figured he'd just run and use the one downstairs but now the man was playing with him like a cat would a mouse. He had no desire to raise the man's ire or whatever emotion he'd pitch at him in trying to leave. So Will bit his lip and waited.

The man looked him up and down with dancing eyes, enjoying himself as the boy continued to squirm.

"It’s some assignment from school, yes? Nonverbal communication!"

Will desperately resisted the urge to sprint down the stairs or shove his way past the man into the bathroom.

"Ah. Too bad. But I do have the whole morning, so shall we keep at it?"

Will’s face became pained.

"Perhaps you are hot? It’s March after all. Spring is in the air! So perhaps your young blood is heating up?"

The sudden urge to punch the infernal man came over him as Will turned bright red before he shook his head vehemently. Unable to take it any longer, Will lurched forward, understanding immediately the doctor's own frustration from last night.

Kearns laughed at the boy's deliberate movements before sidestepping away from the bathroom door. "If you needed to use the facilities, why didn't you say so? That can't be good for you, you know. Straining the bladder and all that. You can go incontinent quite quickly if you keep that up.”

Will hunched his shoulders, trying to hide his heated face as he passed quickly in front of Kearns. Once he reached the threshold he threw himself into the bathroom and slammed the door shut. Its loud bang drove out the man's laughter before he heard the reassuring _click!_ of him returning to his quarters.

Whomever this man was, Will didn’t like him one bit.

 

***

 

Will hid in the bathroom, taking his time to shower and brush his teeth. He didn’t want to run into the doctor's friend. More so when he realized in his rush to avoid Kearns that he didn’t bring a spare set of clothes. And given that his old clothes had resided in the vicinity of gore and worms and vomit, Will didn’t want his body touching those clammy garments again until they were thoroughly washed. More than once.

He cracked the door open, enough to see if the man's door was shut. Seeing that it was, he opened it further and poked his head out. The doctor's door was ajar as well as the room he vacated. To his left hung the ladder to his attic loft. He cocked his head listening for the telling sound of feet approaching the stairs from below.

Hearing none, Will flew out the bathroom, towel about his waist. Instantly his bare body broke out with goosebumps as it met the chilled air. Will scrambled up the ladder, doing his best to make sure that his towel didn't fall off as he flung open the trapdoor with a resounding _BANG!_

Will immediately hurled himself on the floor of his loft and shut the door in case the doctor’s nosy friend decided to investigate the noise.

Shivering, Will shuffled over to his dresser and chucked on a pair of fresh underpants and trousers before donning on a warm thermal long-sleeve. It’ll have to do as he only had one jacket and that currently resided in the laundry hamper, smelling slightly of rust and sour pasta.

The boy considered asking the doctor for another one but he knew somehow he'd get blamed for not having a suitable jacket. No matter that his old sweatjacket had been worn for almost a fortnight or that it was starting to gather a smell to it like an old dog toy. So Will refused to ask him unless absolutely necessary. Luckily, it had been sunny for the past few days so it was considerably warmer and he could do without it.

Pulling on his second to last pair of socks, Will looked around for his shoes. Not finding it where he usually placed them, he panicked a bit before deciding to check the guest bedroom.

Climbing softly down the ladder, Will paused on a lower rung, scouting the floor before he was satisfied that the floor was unoccupied. He closed the trapdoor and went back to the guestroom.

With a happy cry, he saw his sneakers poking out from the messy bedding lying on the floor. A stab of shame pricked Will as he remembered his frantic flight from the bed. He scooped up the quilt and began making the bed. Afterwards he shoved his feet into his shoes and made his way downstairs.

A quick peep around the baluster signaled to Will that someone was in the kitchen. Both the parlor, study and dining room doors were shut so Will had a sinking feeling of exactly who was in the kitchen. Trudging into the warm space, Will's gut plummeted at the man who currently sat in his seat reading the _New York Times_.

"Nice of you to join me, Will!" greeted Kearns, his hair coiffed elegantly despite the lingering dampness. He had donned another of his roguish outfits, the image only broken by the sight of a socked foot upon his knee and his shirtsleeves secured past his elbow. The upbeat tone mixed with his refined British accent lent the welcome a splintering edge that had Will grimacing.

What he'd do to have the doctor's ceaseless lectures boring into his skull at this moment!

Disgruntled, Will walked around the opposite side of the table to the kitchen counters taking the long-side around as not to catch the man's attention. He wondered vaguely where Dr Warthrop was but given his single-mindedness about his friend's find, Will had a suspicion he was still lingering in the basement.

Stomach leading the way, Will began ransacking what little was left in the fridge. An almost empty carton of eggs, several slices of bread, the last bit of cream, and a block of cheese found their way onto the countertop.

Will surveyed his wares. He could make a relatively easy omelet with what he had but he wondered what would fare for lunch and dinner. His stomach flopped at the idea of even considering the leftover pasta. Will snagged a bowl and began cracking eggs, whisking them with a fork.

"Making breakfast? Aren't you the little assistant! I'll have mine poached, thank you very much. And coffee, if you will. As strong as you can make it!"

Will held his breath before releasing it slowly. He turned. "The doctor hasn't any coffee, sir."

"He doesn't? That is a dreadful shame! And he has the audacity to call himself an American. Such is life. I shall partake of Warthrop's endless tea trove then. Make it strong too, Will!" Kearns winked at the boy as he refolded the newspaper and tossed it on the doctor's laptop.

Will sighed and finished whisking his eggs before attending to the man's order.

The stove was in full swing, bubbling away when the doctor made his appearance, bursting out the basement door like some cartoon villain. He looked about the room frantically as if he lost something important.

"Where is he?"

His eyes descended upon Kearns, who looked as calm and collected as the doctor disheveled and dismayed. His face turned to Will before snapping back to Kearns, who looked him up and down.

"You are certainly playing the role of mad scientist quite well, Pellinore. Attempting to live up to your legend here in town?"

Pellinore straightened.

"Where have you been?" he asked, pointedly ignoring the remark.

"Freshening up. It is positively dreadful being cooped up in your dank room for so long. Even if it's enhanced by your lively presence. And now I'm partaking of breakfast."

Pellinore waved a hand distractedly. "There's no time for breakfast!"

"No time for breakfast! What time are you running on, Pellinore? There is certainly more than enough time. You can join me. Come! Your assistant his cooking his little heart out, yet you say there's no time for breakfast." Kearns tsked before turning to Will. "Don't say you haven't tried feeding the man?"

Pellinore turned bright red.

Keeping his eyes fixed on the cooking eggs and not either of the two men, Will flipped his omelet then attended to the whistling kettle. "If I can, sir."

"See? There you go, Pellinore. Take a seat and let your assistant whip you something."

"I am not hungry, Kearns!"

"Could have fooled me. Are you sure you aren't related to our poor boy down there?"

"If you are insinuating that I have intestinal parasites--"

Kearns grinned wickedly.  "Perish the thought! Although..."

The door slammed shut, the doctor's errant stomps echoing through the small kitchen.

"My, his temper is quite robust today." Kearns took the tea offered by Will and took a delicate sip. "Ah perfect! Nothing like a stab of caffeine to start one's day. Wouldn't you agree?"

Will regarded the man warily over his shoulder. Then he scooped the poached eggs onto a plate and placed the dish into the spare spot upon the table.

"I wouldn't know, sir."

"You must! Why, with all the tea Pellinore plies you with, I assumed that accounted for your small size. Did you know caffeine stunts your growth? Perhaps Pellinore is on to something." The man hummed before helping himself to the plate of toast Will also laid upon the table.

Will returned to the counter and grabbed his plate. Then he faltered, staring at the only available seat right across from the doctor's friend.

Groaning inwardly, Will wanted to escape into the dining room but he knew there was no evading the man's sharp eyes. Not to mention he'd have to enter his line of sight anyway. He groaned doubly because it also meant he'd have to move the doctor's paperwork and if there was one thing he learned, it was that the doctor did not like it when he couldn't find his belongings where he thought he left them.

Resigned to his fate, Will placed his food in the chair and carefully negotiated the piles off the table, lining them up so he could remember in what order to replace them back when he finished. He set his place then climbed into the doctor's seat.

Will reached for the toast, stealing a furtive glance at the man over the leftover piles of paperwork. Dr Kearns was buried in another newspaper, teacup perched in his other hand, looking all the world that he lived there. Seizing a piece of toast Will nibbled at it, eyeing the man cautiously. When he did nothing more extraordinary than swipe a bit of egg over another bite of toast and turn the page, Will turned to his own plate, staring at it for a moment before digging in.

The rustle of paper, the clink of silverware, the subtle sip of tea: it lent a bizarre atmosphere of normalcy that Will had yet to experience since arriving here. But it was absolutely ludicrous that it came from this man, this complete stranger that barged into the doctor's home after breaking in. A man that needled, annoyed and frustrated them both until Will felt like pummeling his smug face with his hands.

Yet here he was! Calmly eating his breakfast at the kitchen table like any other human being. It was something that the doctor had not done once the entire time Will resided with him—that is, until he was badgered to do so by this very same man!

Will stopped thinking about it. It was hurting his head and not willing to tempt fate further, he began razing his breakfast. Utterly famished, Will finished everything, hunger lending the simple meal a deliciousness Will haven’t tasted in a long time. Laying down his silverware atop his plate, Will sat back in his seat, satiated and happy.

He was content until he caught Kearns watching him, a gaze just as disconcerting as the doctor's own. It felt as if he was pinned upon an examination table, being poked and prodded with those unrelenting eyes. Will squirmed, sitting upon his hands.

"Yes, sir?"

A slow grin broke out upon the man's face. "How are you with hunting?"

"Hunting?"

"Oh yes. Hunting. Have you done it before?"

Will racked his brain, wondering where the man was going with his query.

"No, sir, I haven't. I mean, my father promised he'd take me one day, but he never got the chance."

Kearns leaned back in his seat. "Oh James, you devil! Never enough time, indeed! I do think Pellinore does run on his own schedule if James never had a chance to treat his own son to mankind's greatest sport. A tragedy that needs to be rectified immediately." Kearns jumped out of his chair and dumped his dishes in the sink. He looked pointedly at Will.

"Sir?"

"Why, haven't you been listening? We are doing hunting this morning!"

The boy ogled the man as if he'd gone insane. "Wha-what?"

Kearns laughed openly at the boy’s expression. "Not that kind of hunting! My my! Most reassuring to note you are as eager for a thrill as I hoped! Though I do worry about your apparent predilection for fainting at the sight of blood. You do have to get used to that I’m afraid. Can't kill things without shedding blood. But no, we shall do something a bit more tame and banal instead."

If anything, the boy's eyes grew wider and Kearns snickered delightedly.

"The grocery, Will,” he clarified. “Warthrop's larder is quite pitiful. And sadly it is not the 1800s, so we won’t procure our supper _au naturale_!"

Will slumped in his seat and the man made his way to the hall, chuckling at the boy's relief. He paused, hand on the doorframe.

"Oh. And one more thing. Do tell Pellinore where we’re going. I wouldn't want to come home to half-mad doctor, however titillating that may be."

The man left, leaving Will the unpleasant task of infiltrating the surly doctor's lair. Will dragged one hand down his face then slowly marched to his doom.

 

***

 

The doctor was highly upset, throwing a tantrum that Will thought was only reserved for small children. But he quickly learned otherwise. The man chewed his ear off about his impudence of trying to leave when there was work to be done. Will had tried to interject reasonably but it was as if he was talking to a wall—and a very shouty one.

For Warthrop, he had been duly patient enough, stewing in his lab and waiting for Kearns and his assistant to accompany him and fulfill their commitment in regards to his latest project. As soon as the boy stepped foot upon the first step, he was instantly accosted by the hurricane of profound anxiety and irritation that was Dr Warthrop.

For one minute second, coming face-to-face with his startled charge lent a comical twist to his haggard features. Upon recognizing Will, he whirled back down the stairs snapping his fingers behind him, beckoning the boy to follow as one would do a loyal dog.

"Snap to, Will Henry! I need you by my side. It's been absolutely frustrating with you unavailable. Having to take down my own notes while performing delicate work is not conducive nor is it efficient! Next time please inform me if you have any...peculiarities in regards to certain stimulus so I may be aware of it next time." The man glanced over his shoulder.

"What are you waiting for? Why do you insist on being obtuse? Did you not hear what I said?"

"Yes, sir. It's just that-"

"Yes, what? Don't tell me there is some excuse you cannot provide the simple duty I ask of you?"

Eyes bore into the boy, drilling deep into his marrow. Will worried his lip and looked away.

"Well? I haven't the patience to play such childish games, Will Henry!" His fingers thrummed a discordant beat against the tabletop. His upset was a palpable choking morass, bearing down upon the boy with the intensity of roiling smoke.

"Dr Kearns is leaving."

Warthrop's hand slipped off the table.

"What?"

If Will told him they've just been burgled, he wouldn't have seen a more shocked and upset expression. Then it gave way to thunderous wrath.

"I’m going kill that man the next time he sticks his nose through my door," hissed Warthrop, jaw working tightly.

Will hurried to fix his error. "No! I mean, he is leaving but to get groceries he said. He's not leaving you, sir. At least I don't think so. I mean, he asked me to go with him."

Whatever Will spouted made it worse. The doctor's face sharpened into turbulent outrage, his entire anima shaking with its force. He made no movement, instead hardening with the force of his emotion.

"He's going. To get groceries. After whisking away to God knows where and leaving me to wait for a couple of hours."

Not knowing how to respond and fearful of not responding at all, Will just mutely nodded.

"And then he decides he's going shopping. Shopping, Will Henry? I heard that correctly, I presume?"

The boy nodded again. He resisted the impulse to sprint up the stairs. Neither of them moved, trapped in the electrifying current crackling about them. Will clutched his hands tighter to his chest and only the shallow breaths of the doctor slit the paralyzing air.

The doctor pitched forward, an instantaneous blur. Will ducked out of his way, pressing tight against the wall.

"Kearns!" Warthrop careened up the steps. The door was thrown aside with a deafening _BANG!_

"Kearns! Where the devil are you? I swear to God if I had my revolver I'd shoot you, Kearns!"

"My, aren't you a bloodthirsty little mongrel this morning?" came a smooth voice. "You needn't have shouted either. It is most unbecoming."

"I wouldn't have the need to if you didn't keep disappearing like a bloody ghost!"

"Oh? Has your assistant delivered my message then? Jolly good. Is there anything you have a particular need for? I'm quite tempted to simply jot down 'everything' and see where that takes me. Your kitchen is pathetic, Warthrop."

Will couldn't discern the fit of words that ricocheted down the stairs at his friend's calm attitude, the combination of which made the doctor more and more of the mad scientist people accused him of being. Picking his way up the stairs, Will inched his way to the kitchen, trying not to bring any attention to himself.

"Ah, and there he is!" Kearns winked at the boy from his spot at the table.

Will wanted to crawl back into the basement.

Dr Kearns was dressed even more elegantly than at breakfast, reminding Will of the fairy-tale characters from the books his mother loved reading to him. His vest was a swirling verdant green and his boots were back, crisp and shiny. If he had a golden aura about him then Warthrop looked like the devil hanging over his shoulder, glowering and seething, hair a tangled mess strewn over his forehead.

The doctor was mere inches from Kearns as if he was going to smack him again, perhaps completely out of his chair this time. Kearns, however, either had a death wish or didn't notice; he merely chuckled and took a sip of his tea, leaning casually against the armrest.

"You are not taking my assistant," stated Warthrop.

"Oh I think I am, Warthrop. He knows better than I do what you are sadly lacking here. Don't you agree, little assistant-apprentice?"

Will sorely wished he was anywhere else on the planet. He'd even take his spot next to the worm-infested stomach rather. Anywhere else than trapped like prey between these two men’s inscrutable and unpredictable personalities.

So Will said nothing. But that did not deter the incorrigible Dr Kearns, who merely shrugged and flicked his hooded gaze up towards his friend's face, a torpid smile tugging at his lips.

The bait worked. Incensed, the doctor edged closer until he was practically draped over Kearns, though he did not touch the man beneath him.

"No," declared Warthrop. "He is my assistant. He stays."

"And so he is. But he's coming with me. His assistance applies in this sense as well, Pellinore and you know it."

Warthrop bared his teeth, ready to snap a retort but Kearns flicked his hand upwards. As if hooked, Warthrop jerked back, indignation marring his unshaven cheeks.

"But my work!"

"Can wait. It managed to survive a two-day's journey from Texas to your home, Warthrop. I think an hour or two more will not cause it anymore harm. Unless you are losing your touch with maintaining such specimens?"

Pellinore's florid face paled slightly. He drew up, his hands retreating to his back.

"Quite so," he said stiffly, addressing the opposite wall. "I...I shall be waiting."

When no one else spoke, Pellinore marched back to the basement, clumsily avoiding Will Henry before disappearing below. The soft clink of tools echoed from the room. Suddenly Will felt a pang of sympathy for the doctor.

Despite his capricious tendencies to flit between one extreme mood to another, all in all, the doctor simply wanted to work in peace. Even if it was a bit melodramatic and uncalled for to get upset over things he had no sway over, Will was able to understand that need chip away at one's hobby. Sometimes Will felt like that with his writing at school, getting frustrated and upset when he ran out of journaling time and had to put his work away even when the words threatened to overwhelm and engulf his entire being.

Even though the doctor's friend was purposely interrupting his work, Will understood Kearns’ reason for doing so as well. Not only did Will not have to bring up the dire situation that slowly encroached upon the doctor's household with every passing day, but secretly he felt relieved that he'd be accompanying Dr Kearns rather than Dr Warthrop. Somehow he felt that shopping would be infinitely much easier than with the doctor. But he also dreaded it, as Dr Kearns would probably be a trial on his already frayed nerves.

"Well, little Will! Seems we have subdued the dragon, so off we go. Now where'd Warthrop place his keys?" The man made a great show of checking the tabletop, before rising from his chair and checking his seat.

"Hmm. Ah!" Triumphantly he pulled the doctor's keys from his trouser pocket with a flourish. "Silly me, seemed I had them with me the whole time." He whirred the keys on his forefinger, looking pleased with himself as if he pulled off some astounding magic trick.

Will, too exhausted to rise to the man's bothersome antics, merely trudged to his side. "I am ready, sir. Shall I make a list first though?"

The keys jarred with a strangling cry as the man caught them in one hand. Will could feel Kearns’ eyes atop his head.

"I think between the two of us, we can remember the most important things. It wouldn't do to dally too long." Kearns ruffled the boy's hair and strode to the front door, which he swung open with a theatrical sweep of his hand.

"Tally-ho, Will Henry!"

 

***

 

Parked along another aisle, Will gathered the necessary items. Toothpaste, his own toothbrush, floss. He dumped them in the already burgeoning cart, piled high with groceries and other necessities such as laundry soap, shaving cream, and polish. He had felt uncertain about picking out some of the items himself since he gravitated towards the kind of things he liked, but Kearns had waved off his protests with the assurance that the doctor would 'like it no matter what’.

Waiting at the cart, Will glanced around the aisle wondering where the doctor's friend had run off to this time. He spotted him at the end of the aisle contemplating a couple of small packages. Kearns was utterly engrossed in the task, chin perched against his hand and head tilted slightly, looking more serious than Will had seen him the entire twenty-four hours he'd known him. The man tapped his lip before finally plucking one of the thin packages from the shelf and slipping it into his pocket.

He returned, humming to himself, before dumping an armful of wares into the cart, including a couple of 2-in-1 shampoos and a package of Old Spice bar soap. Following the man's direction, Will began shoving the bulky cart down the aisle while Kearns greeted a couple of the patrons that passed by. Will struggled to turn the cart down the next couple of aisles but Kearns just followed along, dropping stuff into the cart as he went.

Every once in a while Will stole a glance at the man's pocket, hoping that the man wasn't planning on stealing whatever it was he pocketed. Will felt guilty that he thought that way about the doctor's friend but with him, he wasn't sure what to think anymore. But as a couple of old ladies giggled with pleasure at some enchanting quip from the Brit, Will decided to believe that he must've forgotten to toss it in the cart.

Shoving the buggy to the check-out lane, Will puffed with the effort. He broke its momentum with scrambling feet as it threatened to drag him down the lane but fortunately it skidded to a stop. Looking around, Will was dismayed to find the man was missing again.

Behind the counter, the cashier noticed his distress and took pity on him. "Ah, your dad went to pick up something I think," she said, smiling helpfully.

"Oh." Will looked at the overflowing cart and sighed. Then he began placing the items on the conveyer belt.

"He's not my dad," the boy mumbled.  

"I figured as much. Looks too young to be some old dad." The girl laughed at her own joke, as swift hands began scanning the items. "So is he helping your dad out?"

Will grimaced. "My parents are dead."

The beeping stopped. Then started up again.

"Oh. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to intrude."

_Beep._

"It’s ok. I live with the doctor now. So it's alright."

_Beep. Beep._

"The doctor? You mean the man you're with?"

"No. I mean…he's a doctor too. But he's the doctor's friend."

"I see! Well then, I can see that you are a very helpful little boy to him then!"

Will threw a dubious glance up at the cashier who was smiling to herself, auburn hair pulled back into a messy bun as she scanned the items and handed them over to be bagged. She caught Will's eye and beamed, freckles sprinkled merrily across her pudgy cheeks.

Suddenly she colored, jerking her attention back to the mass of items waiting to be scanned.

"A most reliable boy you are, Will Henry! I couldn't have done a better job myself." Kearns had returned and now grinned impishly at Will, who was perched on the bottom rung of the cart, waving an arm and trying to snag the last bit of items in the middle. Then he turned his dazzling charm onto the cashier, who blushed even further.

"He's been a very helpful boy," she mumbled.

"Ah! I am glad to hear of it. I shall inform his guardian of his hard-earned accolade then."

The girl paused, considering a bag of grapefruit. Then she took one and punched in the code, lashes tickling her cheeks.

"So...do you have lot of accomplishments under your belt then too?"

Kearns cocked a brow. Then the tiger's grin peeled across his face.

"Twelve years and counting. A full-circle if you will, if one considers the lunar zodiac. I do feel my luck is about to change on this next go-around." He flicked the package from his vest pocket onto the counter. "And this too—I almost forgot I had this in my pocket."

If possible the girl turned even redder, seeming at any moment she would spontaneously combust. Confused, Will looked up at Kearns, who still had the same unceasing grin he always wore. Then he wheeled the cart around Kearns to the other side so the bagger could load up the groceries.

With a small beep she scanned the package and handed it back to Kearns' outstretched hand. It curled protectively around the object and he bent his elbow, tucking it against his shoulder as he leaned on the signature stand. 

Tucking a bit of loose hair behind her ear, she steadfastly began finishing the last bit of items while a bagger stuffed the cart with Kearns' purchases.

"Do you get a lot of action?" she asked.

"Benefits of the job. I like to be prepared, especially when the game is exceedingly more difficult than I originally thought." Kearns winked at the girl and she giggled.

Whatever was going on here, Will felt it was worse than being stuck with the Stinnett girls on the bus seat as they gushed over Justin Timberlake's frosted tips. It was awkward and Will desperately wanted to leave.

"Does your job take you to a lot of places?"

"Oh yes," replied Kearns sleekly, pocketing the item back into his pocket. "To and fro upon this earth and back again, reveling in her marvelous delights."

Kearns chuckled as he removed a thin wallet from his trouser pocket. He tugged free a debit card and swiped it. A flick of the fingers and it returned, nestled in the sparse wallet. Unlike Warthrop's, which was bulging with slips of tattered papers and a multitude of cards, Kearns' was neat, free of any extraneous matter.

The girl handed a receipt to Kearns, who signed the bottom with a flourish before handing it back to the girl.

"Thank you. A—and this one's for you. This is your copy. For your records." She flushed as she said it and held her hands together against her waist. Kearns folded it and then tucked it into his other vest pocket.

"I shall keep it then, until I am of need of it perhaps."

Kearns leaned upon the fully loaded shopping cart, arms crossed over the other as he pushed it. Will followed behind, looking back at the bagger who looked as befuddled as he felt. The girl was now ringing up the next patron's wares but she still stole a glance over at the pair. Her eyes widened and she jerked away, stammering out something to the elderly lady who laughed kindly at her embarrassment.

The pair made it to the doctor's Daytona which Kearns unlocked, tossing up the hatchback. He stared for a second at the leaf-strewn compartment, scattered with various tools and trash wrappers before he began loading the trunk.

"This boot is positively atrocious,” Kearns muttered to himself. He slammed the door and sent Will off to return the cart inside. When Will returned, the car was pulled curbside and Will hopped in.

The ride back home was silent and Will idly watched New Jerusalem pass by his window. Dr Kearns seemed very familiar with the town and it left Will wondering exactly who and what the man was.

Did he used to live here and then moved? He had a distinguished British accent so Will figured he was born in England but other than that, he was an enigma. Even with the girl's avid questioning, Will had no clue what the man even did for a living. He rode a motorcycle and brought home parasitic worms and organs. For the life of him, Will could not comprehend what kind of job allowed him to carry human body parts around the US like a hunk of luggage.

He stole a glance at Kearns, who had been uncharacteristically quiet the entire trip back. The man was driving the cramped vehicle single-handedly, elbow propped against the door and played with his faint moustache, eyes trained straight-ahead.

A single grey eye glanced in his direction and Will stiffened. It flicked back towards the road, but the man said nothing—nothing until he pulled up to 425 Harrington Lane and saw the cop car parked neatly against the curb.

"Two hours and Warthrop managed to get into trouble already."

Will planted his face against the window, heart hammering in his chest as Kearns wheeled the car into the driveway. As soon as Kearns cut the engine, Will burst out of the car, sprinting up across the yard, up the steps and threw open the front door.

"Dr Warthrop!"

No answer forthcoming, Will flew into the kitchen, nearly running into the startled form of Officer Robert Morgan, who quickly grabbed hold of the frantic boy.

“Whoa, Will! What is it? Hold on, it’s ok. He’s here. Why do you think something’s wrong?” The officer bent down to the boy’s level, grasping him firmly by the shoulders. Like a captured bird, Will struggled in his hands, poking his head around the worried gaze of the policeman. Only when the wavering form of the doctor swam into view did Will calm down.

“I’m sorry, sir. I just…was afraid.”

Something flitted in the man’s eyes, amplified behind his round glasses. He tugged the boy close, wrapping him in a firm embrace. “Well, it makes me very glad I decided to stop by on my rounds today. I can’t stay long but I wanted to make sure everything was alright.”

Nestled against the starched policeman’s uniform, Will capitulated and buried his face against his chest, small hands tugging at the man’s sleeves.

 

***


	9. Have I Outlived My Usefulness to You?

The heady scent of tobacco enveloped the boy, the familiar aroma pulling him further into the officer's embrace. The coarse starch nestled his face, hands straining tight against Morgan’s sleeves. Will wanted nothing more than to believe that he was back home again—that Mr Morgan had just stopped by for a visit and soon his mother would come bustling in any minute.

_"Robert, how good it is to see you! Work hasn't been too crazy I hope?"_

His mother's delicate giggle, her hair dusted lightly with flour where she absentmindedly tucked her auburn hair back into its disorderly bun. She soon would be joined by his father's hurried steps as he popped out of one of the rooms, face flushed and perhaps a bit unkempt if he had just come home from Dr Warthrop's. His mother always made him shower when he returned since he always came back saturated with the doctor's particular odor. Sharp, chemically sweet.

_"Oh Robert! You're early!"_

That sheepish grin of his father’s as he tried to set his short hair to rights, tufts of it still sticking up from his shower.

_"I just wanted to see William since I never had the chance last time. A policeman’s work is never done."_

And with that, they would laugh as Robert scooped up Will into a crushing hug, leaving the boy rosy with a small gasp of surprise. The whirl of fragrant tobacco mixed with the aroma of his mother's apple pies. The subtle snap of cinnamon from his father's cologne. The comforting scent of home, full and happy.

Will pulled back, the crisp uniform now softened with dampness. Everything would be alright. Robert was still here. Same aged brown eyes, same short tufts of receding dull brown hair. The bristly mustache that held a small sad smile.

A shudder stole Will, his breath wobbling past his lips. He bunched the cuffs of his shirt around his hand and rubbed his eyes. "Thank you, sir. I missed you."

Morgan took in the sight of his friend's child, the way his eyes hid and fixed themselves to the ground. Behind him, he sensed Warthrop rocking uncertainly upon his feet. Closing his eyes, he steeled himself with a quiet breath and ruffled the boy's hair, gathering Will’s anxious eyes to his face. Morgan smiled reassuringly. "Me too, Will. I am very glad I was able to stop by."

Morgan returned to his feet. He stepped aside, allowing the boy an uninterrupted view of the doctor. Warthrop stood off to the side, hands behind his back and attention fixated on something by the back door.

"We're back, sir," said Will. Warthrop's head rose slightly as if the boy's greeting just alerted him to his presence.

"Yes, I can see that, Will Henry," replied the doctor gruffly. He turned his head. "Where's J-"

"Miss me already, Pellinore?"

Dr Kearns strode into the kitchen, two brown paper bags in each arm. His boyish mien lit up once he spied the policeman idling near the kitchen table and he marched straight over.

"Who is this delightful bloke you’ve invited over?" Kearns beamed, allowing the groceries to slip onto the kitchen table. Freed from his burden, Kearns turned and bestowed the officer with a full-fledged smile, one that wouldn’t look out of place in a tooth whitening ad, dazzling and perfectly straight.

"This is Officer Robert Morgan, who is working with Will Henry's...case. And Robert, this is Dr-"

"Koury," interjected Kearns, thrusting his hand forcibly at Morgan, who had no option but to take the proffered hand. "Dr Richard Koury. How do you do?"

Morgan stared at the man's overly cheery smile, then down at where his hand was pumped vigorously before it was released with a flourish.

"I’m doing as well as I can, Dr Koury. It's been a very long day." Morgan returned his hand into his pocket, situating his weight onto one leg. "I'm mostly thankful for the respite of a well-earned Sunday."

"Aren't we all?"

Morgan blew a breath through his lips. "Indeed. Anyways, it is nice to meet you, Dr Koury."

"Please, call me Richard. 'Doctor' is merely an honorary title."

Morgan glanced up at that. His spectacles flashed in the chipped light that edged from the tiny sink window. "Oh? But Warthrop told me you were a doctor who assisted him in his studies." Then he frowned.

"Wait. Warthrop also said your name was Jack." He shot Kearns a suspicious look.

Kearns laughed gleefully at that, throwing an amused glance at Dr Warthrop. "Jack is my nickname, if you will. Among close friends." He winked at the policeman.

"As for Dr Warthrop, I do not assist the good doctor in anything. I don't have a death wish, Officer Morgan. Oh, I might have dabbled in medical work and pathology in my youth—everything's so fresh and tempting when one is young! But no, I haven't sliced into anyone in years."

Officer Morgan tipped his chin curiously. "Is that so? What made you stop?"

"Got boring after a while, to tell you the truth. I’m easily bored, so I switch professions. Luckily for me, the thrill of this one hasn't worn off…yet. It's bloody dreadful having to send in one's two-week's notice—not to mention the job hunt afterwards!"

Morgan eyed the man skeptically, taking in his languid posture against the table. "So you are here because...?"

"My my! Being interrogated so early in the day already? You must think I’ve done something awful. And here I thought it was Warthrop in trouble! Perhaps I shouldn’t have rushed in so dearly. Though you did give little Will quite the scare, Officer."

The policeman pulled his lips at that, completely disappearing beneath his thick moustache. He plucked the glasses off his nose and swiped them clean. "I was merely checking up on my case, Richard. I wasn't expecting my presence to upset William unduly. Anyways, what do you know of William? I don't remember James ever mentioning a Dr Koury."

"Oh, I've worked alongside James here and there," mused Kearns.

"Ah." Though still skeptical of the affable Englishman, Robert nodded slowly to himself though his eyes stuck to the roguish character like a hound’s to a fox. Suddenly his eyes widened comically behind his spectacles, several pieces falling together in his head.

Jack raised a brow. "Oh? Have you recollected something?"

"It's nothing," replied Robert, a little too quickly. "I just remembered I have heard of you before today. It just connected since the last time James said anything was months ago."

"Oh, do tell."

"Just that, well." He coughed. "James told me that you were a doctor of sorts and that sometimes you travelled with them on their expeditions. He didn't really specify much."

Kearns chuckled. "I'm starting to realize that. Though if you are indeed a good friend of Pellinore's, it wouldn't do to start lying. I detect there had to be quite the embellishment beyond 'a doctor of sorts'."

Robert rubbed the back of his neck but refused to say anything further, lest he oust his deceased friend's real opinion on the odd Brit.

Meanwhile Pellinore had been rifling through the bags behind Kearns, removing its contents and placing them on the cluttered table. Will, not wanting to get in the adults’ way, began gathering the items as Warthrop removed them and put them away in their respective cabinets.

"Jack, is this all you bought in two-hour's time?" he growled, glaring up from the empty bag as he rolled a shaving can onto a stack of paperwork.

"Of course not. I don’t plan on doing this again, so I made sure your little charge informed me of everything you needed."

"Oh." Pellinore glanced back into the bag before attempting to fold it. It creased in all the wrong places and frustrated, Warthrop chucked the half-folded bag to the floor.

Smirking, Kearns arched off the table and beckoned towards the boy. "Come Will! Two bags down, only thirteen more to go. My, that's an unlucky number. Hope nothing happens!"

Kearns strode out of the kitchen, Will trotting immediately behind like a tagalong puppy, leaving Morgan and Warthrop staring at empty archway.

"He is a strange man, this Dr Koury." Morgan tugged at his moustache. Then he turned back towards Warthrop. "But he does seem to be helping you out. Is that why he came?"

Warthrop threw Morgan a scowl before shoving the toiletries into a pile. He scowled at those too, as if they personally offended him.

"He comes and goes as he pleases,” Warthrop said. “Always had, even before I inherited this place and moved back here."

Robert hummed, idly rubbing his thumb against his curled forefinger. "He looks amiable enough. But is that what James meant when he always came storming through my office about that 'damnable Brit unfit for human company'?" 

Pellinore snorted to himself, absentmindedly rolling the shaving can in his hand. "James always had a peculiar dislike towards Jack's...habits. I never understood where it came from, though I suspect it stemmed from their very first meeting together." Pellinore's lips quirked at the thought. Then they soured.

"What could have set such a grunge so deep?" asked Morgan curiously.

Before Pellinore could answer, a large paper bag with short legs came shuffling into the kitchen, huffing with exertion. Morgan rushed to Will's side and scooped the heavy sack from his quivering arms.

"Oof. Thank you, sir," piped Will before jogging back to the hallway. Kearns came immediately after with an impish grin and dumped his own bags at Pellinore's feet. Then he left.

Pellinore sighed and began emptying the groceries. However, once he discovered that they were all perishables, he threw open the fridge door behind him and began chucking everything inside. Behind him, Robert placed Will's bag on the ground.

"So how has the work been doing?"

Warthrop grunted and shoved a gallon of milk that appeared at his feet against a loaf of bread and a carton of juice. "The research transcription is almost completed, despite having to put it on hold momentarily. James' sacrifice will not be for naught, I assure you. The finalized thesis will be presented at this year’s Colloquium even if I have to sacrifice sleep to ensure its completion."

Morgan's face grimaced, tightening around the corners. Hands thrust glumly in his uniform pocket, one twiddling with something inside. He watched as Kearns and Will bustled in again, dropping their wares on the floor and returning outside.

"I see."

"See what?” grumbled Warthrop, tossing aside another empty bag. “I know you haven't dropped by to check my progress with the  _Naegleria fowleri_. You are merely here to uphold your own obligation towards James and his child. This is no social call between friends. It’s not as if this was a habitual occurrence before now." Pellinore kicked the door shut with his foot and leaned against it, crossing his arms.

"Goddamn it—must you always be so thick-headed? You know I’m here for supporting you both."

"And I merely want to be left alone, Robert. Plain and simple. But apparently the gods don't wish me even that little bit of solace. I must have angered them somehow in my short life and this is their overdue retribution. Or perhaps it is some capricious whim worthy of some ancient Greek god and I am no guiltier than Paris. First the boy, then Kearns and now you. Is that too much to ask?"

"You were the one--" Robert's mouth snapped closed. "Wait. Who's Kearns?"

"Did someone call?" came the now familiar purr. Robert spun around towards the smiling Englishman, who stood in the archway as he clapped his hands free of dirt.

"But your name is Koury," asserted Morgan.

"That's what I thought too,” mused Kearns. “But I seem to gather names to myself like some American outlaw I'm afraid." Kearns laughed delightfully.

Will returned to the kitchen to a pair of sullen adults and one with an overbearingly cheery countenance as if it was his personal quest to outdo the sun. Upon hearing the pitter-patter of the boy’s footsteps, the officer latched onto Will, ignoring the two men hell-bent on stoking his ire.

"Ah Will, I've been meaning to ask—how have you been doing?"

Pellinore snorted behind him and muttered something to himself. Robert grit his teeth and made no indication he even heard.

"I'm doing ok."

"I’m glad. And school? School's going well?"

"Yes, sir," replied Will. However, Morgan kept looking at him expectantly, so Will fumbled on. "I mean, yes it's going good. But sometimes I get tired or sometimes the work is hard. But I'm still doing alright."

"Do you get help from Dr Warthrop if it's too hard?"

A quick glance at Warthrop and Will's eyes leapt back to Morgan. The doctor looked positively thunderous, a disheveled storm cloud ready to pour forth a tirade at any moment.

"I study with him a lot now. He's been teaching me some things."

The policeman made an affirmative sound in his throat but his eyes narrowed behind his glasses. "Is that so?"

"Yes, sir. My computer teacher is very proud of my typing skill now. She said I can do thirty words per minute."

Robert looked a bit taken aback. "Really? That is pretty good, William. I am glad to hear of it."

Soft chuckling permeated in the room's silence.

"What's so funny, John?" snapped Warthrop.

"It might be just me, Pellinore, but I find this whole scenario exceedingly remarkable. I feel like Alice tumbling down the rabbit hole. It is unbearably fun to watch."

Indignant, Morgan drew to his full height. However, he was still a good six inches shorter than the doctor's irritating friend. "What do you mean by that?"

"You both are as blind as bats. Do those glasses even function, Robert? I can recommend you a better optometrist. Your last one should be sacked for giving you glasses that only John Lennon can pull off."

The policeman sputtered, face turning red. Morgan marched up to Kearns and nearly poked a finger into chest but recoiled at the wicked teeth that flashed predator-like above his face. He stiffened.

"This doesn't concern you at all, Richard--"

"Jack. We've gathered enough information about the other to be more than acquaintances, mm?"

"Jack, Richard, John! Whatever your damn name is! And no! I don't think so! I have no idea who or what you even are or even your name for that matter!”

"My mother liked John. Even she is no different than the hordes of other young women who like to give names to their children based on someone they like."

"I didn't ask," shot Robert.

"Ah, well now you know. Amazing—learning more about each other already!"

"I don't know or wish to know more about you!"

Kearns tutted. "That's a shame. Are you sure you'd be satisfied with such an unfair exchange?"

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"Why, I already know so much about you."

"What are you implying?" The policeman finally lost his temper. "Warthrop, who—or what is this man you allowed into your home?"

"He told you already," answered Kearns in his stead, losing at once his jovial and lively facade. At the whisper-soft reply, delivered in tone as cold and unfeeling as one would toss remains upon the street, Morgan flinched back.

Just like the night before, Will felt the shift acutely as it plunged the entire room into an icy awareness of something amiss, reflected only in the man's flat expressionless eyes baring down on the man beneath them.

"I am his friend. To which I should be plying _you_ with this unwarranted interrogation. But unlike you, I seem retain my manners."

Dumbfounded at the man's abrupt change from his charming personality to something more dangerous and chilling, Robert took a couple of steps back, escaping the man's scrutiny beneath his piercing, fathomless eyes.

"I-I'm sorry, I didn't mean to offend you," stammered Robert. "It's just my duty in regards to William, I assure you. I have to make sure that anyone with sustained contact to Will are sound of mind."

"And I can assure you, Officer Morgan, that I am quite sane. More sane than perhaps anyone else in this room. Even so, that is beside the point. I do not live here nor do I have any desire to tie myself in with any of Pellinore's more questionable decisions. I live for myself and that is not going to change. I do not pretend to enjoy something I have no business in nor do I pretend to be something I am not. And I don’t burden myself with such useless self-flagellation. So all in all, your original reasoning is a moot point."

With that, Kearns swiped the toiletries left upon the table, turned his heel and left the room, leaving a shattered void of silence in his egress.

Morgan shifted uncomfortably upon his feet as if avoiding the shards of his ill-spoke discourse that now lay all around them.

"Leave him be," instructed Warthrop, catching the way the policeman kept glancing towards the empty hallway. "Anything more and I might have to ply my medical skills on you in a more literal sense."

"What kind of man is that?" asked Morgan quietly.

"Even I cannot answer that for you, though I have known the man for more than a decade."

Morgan chuckled dully, attempting to sweep away the awkward tension he created. "I know what that’s like."

Pellinore looked up from his perusal of Kearns' purchases. "Whatever do you mean by that?"

Not desiring to have another mad doctor bearing down on him in unmitigated upset, Robert shrugged. "Comes with being an officer in a small town. I learn things about people I didn't know before."

The doctor hummed noncommittally before calling Will over. He placed some leftover items into his hands. "Here. Put these away in the upstairs bathroom, Will Henry."

Armed with a bottle of shampoo and a toothbrush, Will trudged upstairs. Glancing around, there was no sign of Dr Kearns and his bedroom door was shut.

Inching his way around the bannister to the bathroom, he deposited his bundle in their correct spots, joining several new items that indicated Kearns having dropped them off moments before.

Will returned to the hall. Without the presence of Dr Kearns, the boy slowly walked down the stairs, not wishing to pry and seek the man out if he didn’t want to be found.

Each step creaked in protest as they bore his small frame, but soon those were drowned out with the animated discussion that rushed from the kitchen. A voluminous flood of heated words drenched the hallway, swallowing the boy when he rounded off the stairwell.

"--haven't even taken a look at the paperwork, Warthrop? It's been a week! Have you been twiddling your thumbs this entire time?"

"Don't give me that. You know my profession requires my utmost diligence, and unless Dr Koury is correct and you should have your eyesight reassessed, you witnessed my piles of work with your own eyes not more than a week ago!"

"That's no excuse, Pellinore and you know it! I haven't asked you to drop your entire life's work! Hell, I didn't even ask you to take in the boy—you did that on your own!"

"Don't you dare throw that in my face, Robert," snarled the doctor. "You and I both agreed that James' son would do best under my roof! Don't you dare renege your judgement out of your unbridled emotion!"

Sharp bursts of indignant sputters wracked the claustrophobic space as if Warthrop seized Robert's voice and effectively twisted it as one would a hose. Will hid himself into a small indentation between the parlor and the dining room, cowering.

"I take it that your reluctance to even look at the documents mean you have no interest past housing the boy?"

"I didn't say that."

"You don't need to. Your actions say all that needs to be said."

"Absolutely not! Are you putting words in my mouth and assigning your own contextual meaning to my actions? A week without looking at some paperwork is no indication that I don’t wish to care for Will Henry!"

"Pellinore, this isn't something you can procrastinate or be ambivalent towards. Going back to your premise that I agreed you would be fit to watch Will, you also did say that you don’t have any desire to adopt him. So while I can stomach that you didn’t look over the adoption procedures as a continuation of that fact, it isn't good that you have no idea of your responsibilities towards him as a foster parent. It's not a said and done thing, Pellinore. You do know that it is under my jurisdiction to remove William if I have reasonable suspicion that Will isn't being housed properly."

"Are you saying that he isn't? Are you saying that straight to my face right now? Go ahead and say it. You are no friend of mine or James in that case!"

"God, get over your selfishness, Pellinore! While you and I lost a both lost a friend and companion, Will lost a father! Quit wallowing in your egotistical pity party and do what is required of you that YOU YOURSELF CHOSE TO TAKE ON!"

The whole house caved, collapsing with the ensuing silence. Everything hung on tenuous threading woven around the unseen pair and the small boy caught in-between. Like poison, the violence soaked into each knot of wood and crevice of the old house, leeching a lingering miasma of doubt and disappointment throughout the floor.

Will hid against the wall. His hands clamped over his ears and he curled in on himself, face pressed into his upraised knees. He rocked himself on his feet. Back and forth. Back and forth.

As the verbal tirade swelled, it wormed its way past his white-knuckled hands, burrowing past the buzzing of his brain.

 _Can parasites be invisible?_   _I can feel it, Doctor Warthrop. It's there. Will I be like that little boy's stomach upon your table? Will you acknowledge I have a brain now?_

Back and forth. Hands clawing at his ears.

 _Will you want to keep me then? Can I still be useful enough to stay?_ Will bit his lip, the sharp pain anchoring his thoughts from spiraling outward.

_Why do you even want to live with the doctor, Will? He's done nothing but either pretend you don't exist or works you to the bone until all you want to do is sleep! And even then, he doesn't allow that. Always making you type out his notes for him like a little slave. That’s why he's keeping you, you know. He's even said it himself. He doesn’t want to leave your father's work unfinished. And that's what you're here for. Don't be stupid and think otherwise!_

_No! He's not like that!_  shouted Will back to the voice that mocked him.

It melted away, laughing into the nothing from whence it came.

But Will knew it'd be back. It'll always be back. Hovering over him as he tried to sleep, sometimes wearing the doctor's ghoulish mask with those sharp, thin features and hollowed out eyes, taunting him with more menace and painful truth than even Dr Kearns. After all, the annoying and teasing banter of Kearns did not trill in this ear to run away. To run away and never return.

Just like he did with his parents.

Will’s heart hammered wildly.

He did it to his beloved parents. He ran away and left them to die. He could’ve done something. But like a selfish coward, he ran.

So what was holding him back from doing so with this man, this strange doctor that had admitted to Officer Morgan that he didn’t want him?

Will could run to the Stinnetts. Return back to Morgan who knew him much better than the irascible doctor that hid out in his basement and acted like he still lived alone. Anyone other than this man. Will didn’t understand why the man even kept him around for any reason other than to finish the debt owed to him by his father.

Fat drops welled in his unblinking, unseeing eyes. Then fell. They littered his bare hands, trailing down his cheeks in silent sorrow.

Why did it even matter so much? It was the one question that constantly plagued Will every waking hour. Plagued him in his dreams. Why? _Why?_ He could have someone who actually cared for him, who needed him for something more than being a chore boy and mini-secretary. And he knew all he had to do is say something and he'd be taken away.

But he couldn't. He didn't want to leave with the same voracity that he desperately wished he could. So trapped in perpetual limbo, Will continued to stay and hated himself for it. Hated every single passing second of weakness as they spun into minutes into hours. Into days rounding off into weeks. And still he did nothing, save what the doctor told him to do.

The harsh sniffles of his sobs brushed like sandpaper. Suddenly he became aware of the oppressive silence around him. Will tensed, sucking in a choking breath. He listened but nothing came. No murmurs. No steps. No movement but his own.

The boy’s pulse skittered, pumping madly.

There. The scrape of a chair. A rustle. The smallest of sighs. As soft and tired as the rabbit's breath that beat rapidly against his lips. Only hushed murmurs emanated from the kitchen with the sparse clink of dishware.

Will huddled in his corner, waiting to see if any of the men left the kitchen. He didn’t want them to see how upset he was and he didn't want to have to explain himself. But more importantly, he didn't want them mad at each other over him either.

When no one came, Will slowly got to his feet, clinging to the worn door jamb for support when his legs faltered.

 _Breathe._ He clutched the wood, bits of ligneous material collecting beneath his bitten nails. Once he could feel his feet again, he left quietly, taking care to shut the front door softly.

Will wobbled onto stoop, toes curling in his sneakers. A breeze whipped up, dragging idly through his hair and nipping at his uncovered skin. Bundling his sleeve over his hands, Will fisted the fabric tightly closed and huddled in on himself.

On either side of the small porch the dense shrubbery rustled, a susurrate scratch of leaf on leaf. Overhead, the vaulted canopy opened up to a sky so blue, Will felt if he reached out it would shatter. Nothing marred its intensity, framed by the deadened branches that wavered beneath its belly. Will leaned against the weathered column, eyes raised to the sky. He shivered, pressing tighter against the cracked plaster.

He didn't want to think about what he’d overheard. But no matter how much he kept gazing into that piercing blue willing the voices to stop, they continued chattering innately in his mind, repeating over and over the plain and simple fact that this would never be a permanent home for him.

With a choked cry the boy dashed off the porch and escaped into the yard.

Why did they have to talk about him as if he was no more than some...some pet? As if he had no desires or wishes of his own? Did he not matter? Why would they never ask him what he wanted? It was seemed as if the only thing that ever mattered was what the doctor wanted.

Angrily Will kicked a pinecone, careening it across the dead grass. It tumbled and rolled to a stop. He ran after it and kicked it again, feeling a dead sense of satisfaction when it bounced into the street. However, the sight of the lone pinecone incensed Will and he began chasing all the other pinecones off the front yard, hurling them into the street.

Why did they want to send him away? These were his father's friends! They promised that they’d take care of him! And now they wanted to foist him off to some strange family that he didn't know like unwanted baggage.

 _Smack!_  Another pinecone flew into the air.

It wasn't as if he wasn't trying hard. How come the doctor didn't see that? He did his best to stay out of his way like he asked and did as much as he could by himself. Plus he cleaned the man’s home, did his typing, and did the cooking. Wasn't that all the things he employed his own parents for? Why wasn't that enough?

Will tried to kick another pinecone but he missed. Irate, Will began kicking wildly, churning up chunks of grass instead. He let out a keening wail and swung his leg, but the momentum yanked his leg out from under him and he collapsed into the grass.

His eyes stung. Buried under the relentless scrutiny of the sapphire sky, Will tried hard not to cry.

_What if the reason the doctor didn’t want him because he had messed it all up last night?_

Mr Morgan had given Dr Warthrop the paperwork to keep him, he knew. Saw it right on the countertop where Warthrop left it after cleaning off his workspace. Passed by it every day. Why would Mr Morgan give the doctor the papers if Will wasn't going to get to stay?

But now the doctor said he didn't want to keep Will. Wasn't really planning on it really.

Will inhaled shallowly through his stuffed nose, the sound wavering and pitiful to his ears. He threw an arm over his eyes, teeth clamping lightly upon his lower lip.

Maybe at first the doctor wasn't sure if he wanted to take in Will. After all, besides some glimpses and the stories from his father, they had never met before. Maybe the doctor was thinking of taking him in if only he was a good and helpful boy. Especially with how he wanted to teach Will what his father did. Shown him his restricted laboratory and even wanted him to work on his latest project, one that he was obviously very excited and keen to start.

Tears flowed freely, coursing down his cheeks and nestling into his hair. He messed up. He couldn't handle the work. Dr Kearns had said so himself. Didn't he just tell Will earlier how shocked Warthrop was when he got sick and passed out?

And now the man didn't want him anymore.

A broken sob fell loose.

Will desperately wished for his father back with his abashed grin, sunny and warm. Warm enough to make whatever sadness existed melt away. Will wanted that warmth back. He wanted to be enveloped in its burly and sure strength, a tangible promise that all would be well.

His arm fell away, landing dully in the grass. He beheld the unrelenting blue, swimming into a morass of blurs. He blinked rapidly, trying to expel the tears lodged there but he couldn’t. Not under such a blinding truth that took hold of his heart, ripping and breaking and tearing it free from its hiding place beneath his ribs.

Will released a shuddering gasp.

It was over. He had to accept it. Just like what Kearns had said to the man himself.

_It's right in front of you, Pellinore...if only you choose to accept it._

His father, gone. His mother. His home. His belongings. All gone. Will had accepted this, every time he awoke to the exposed beams of his attic bedroom. Remembering when he threw on the doctor's faded hoodie over his new clothes and used the school supplies from Mrs Morgan. Every listless meal, every drag of his tired eyes across the doctor's endless, cryptic research and every dull roar of suffocating silence gnawed at this brain until it rendered him comatose and unfeeling. It all ground Will down until all he felt like doing was to fall asleep and never wake up.

However, the thought that this man, this close friend of his father's, not only served as his remaining tie to his beloved father but also as someone that needed him—that was the only thing that kept him going. Kept him from fleeing and wishing he was anywhere else than that gloomy house. Dr Warthrop needed him, just like he needed his father before him and that connection was something that Will found himself desiring, though he couldn't understand why.

The weight of that need had fallen upon him like steel manacles, dragging him relentlessly to the doctor's side no matter the hour, no matter how fatigued he was and no matter how mundane the task. The doctor beckoned and Will followed.

Dragging a shaking hand into his hair, Will combed free the bits of dried grass. He lay there for a while, allowing the tinny song of cardinals and the whisper-soft shift of foliage to waylay his tumultuous thoughts.

Gradually his stuttering pulse ebbed away into a dull echo, leaving the soft sigh of the world around him. With that flitted away the doctor's thin voice, tossed away like grains of sand to the wind. He could feel them scatter away, scraping against his fingertips. He reluctantly tried to call them back, but they floated out of reach.

Suddenly the hairs on Will's arms prickled. Will bolted up, falling back on his hands, terribly afraid that someone had seen him in his distress.

Nothing moved on the pinecone littered street. His head jerked, eyes scanning the converging sidewalk.

No one.

The bare trees tittered at the boy's distress. Realizing that perhaps the doctor or Morgan had come to fetch him, Will twisted around. But no one was there.

Will turned back with a prick of disappointment. Pushing himself to his feet, Will brushed off the shed grass that clung to his dark shirt. The grass crunched beneath his shoes, its fragile stems snapping beneath his weight as Will trudged back towards the house.

A movement caught the corner of Will's eye. He flinched, hands clasped tight to his pounding chest.

There, on the hood of Warthrop's dilapidated car, lay Dr Kearns like a serene jungle cat. His arms were folded behind his head as he leaned against the spotted windshield. One of his legs sat crossed upon his bent knee, lazily swaying to some internal tune. Stretched fully, Kearns barely fit upon the car's hood, one booted foot braced against the dirty bumper. His eyes were closed, the dark lashes stark against his tanned cheek.

"An insufferable little tosser, isn't he?"

Will tensed at the sudden question—Kearns had not moved.

"Sir?"

 _Flick, flick._  The sharp black boot grazed the air with the idleness of a twitching tail.

"Do you mean the doctor?"

Kearns snorted, head lolling towards Will. An intermittent smile played upon his lips. "I suppose one could make an argument there."

He returned his face back towards the sun, beguiling it with his laughter. Kearns fell silent, breathing deep of the loamy aroma from the forest that surrounded Warthrop's home.

"So what do you think of the monstrumologist?"

Will's eyes snapped towards the man lodging on the car. He wasn't expecting that.

"What do I think?"

"Yes, yes. You have to have an opinion, do you not? It's Warthrop. One cannot be two minutes with the man and not have an opinion." A low chuckle permeated the air.

"Well, he's...very smart. Though he's a bit..." Will fidgeted, fumbling around for words to accurately describe his mixed thoughts.

"A bit…what?"

"I don't know.” Will shrugged. “I can't describe what I mean. He’s just…the doctor."

"Ah, yes that is pretty accurate—Pellinore is a very indescribable fellow. Though I admit a few choice words do come to mind."

Will looked hesitantly back towards the front door.

There was something he had been wanting to ask ever since he learned of Kearns’ relationship with the doctor, but he’d been afraid.

Making up his mind, Will shuffled closer to Kearns, stopping a few feet from the Daytona. His mouth opened. Fell shut, eyes wandering over the ground. Then they snapped back up again. The boy steeled himself, hands clenched tightly at his sides.

There was a good chance that Dr Kearns had witnessed his tantrum but the man had made no mention of it. It was that piece of confidence that bolstered Will into finally asking what he wanted to know. 

"Sir? I was wondering—if it's ok? I mean...you knew my father."

Two steel-grey eyes regarded Will and the boy flushed furiously under their unrelenting attention.

"S-so do you do the same type of work as him? I-I mean, my father." Will began twining the hem of his shirt in his fingers. "I didn't know anything about Dr Warthrop’s work until I came here and I didn’t know what my father did either. I was just wondering...do you know anything about my father? Because that's what Dr Warthrop wants me to do—to be like my father. If I can, I think." Will's rambling fell silent and he tucked his chin to his chest, shoulders shielding himself as he tried not to glance too much at those unyielding eyes.

They fell, hidden behind his lids. Kearns’ head turned, youthful face slashed in sharp profile against the harsh etching of trees behind him.  

"Your father didn't quite enjoy my company very much, I’m afraid. I always wondered why. Poor man needed some enlivening to his droll life. Dreadfully boring. The man was always into whatever Pellinore was doing—ah. You don't like that do you?"

A thrilled smirk split across Kearns’ face as Will tried to tamp down the anger that surged through at Kearns' mocking of his father. He trembled, nerves afire. But because he kept his teeth clenched and lips shut, he couldn’t respond.

"You needn't take my word for it, little assistant-apprentice. After all, you've only just met me. Much better to take the word of someone more trusted, yes? Perhaps your stolid policeman friend or even our dear Pellinore. I grant they have the fairy-tales you want.”

Will wanted to stomp back into the house and throw himself into his bed and lay there. Preferably with a dose of screaming until everyone else knew how upset he was. But he tamped down the urge, shoving it down, down until it hardened into a treacherous lump of lead in his gut; the doctor was the last person he wanted to see right now.

But more so than that, he already had Dr Warthrop’s opinion of his father ground into him over the course of two weeks. How loyal his father was. His father’s interest in monstrumology. Endless comments on his father’s aptitude for organization and record keeping, often delivered with a critical eye thrown in his direction.

And he didn't want to ask Morgan, who would have probably looked at him with pity that Will was even asking about his father.

The only person he had left was this man in front of him, relaxing languidly under the noonday sun.

Will gathered his resolve, feet hauling him closer to the Daytona until he brushed against it. His hands, seeking stability, lay atop the cool metal hood.

"Please, sir. Dr Warthrop told me a lot of things about my father and what he did. But...you told Mr Morgan that you worked with him a bit too. So I just want to hear about him. If that's ok?" Will watched his fingers fumble over the other, tingling with the sharp nip of cold steel. He stole a peek at Kearns, whose face remained trained on the sky above, yet had an uncharacteristic solemnity to it.

"I can't say much about James. But I can tell you this: your father had as much zeal and skill at his work as Warthrop does his. And that is rare…I cannot fault him for that." A small frown tugged at the man's lips before it was whisked away as if it never existed.

Fleeting. Frail.

Kearns tossed his golden head towards Will. "We met once or twice on some adventures overseas. Yet you are much too young for those tales!" The grin was back, jovial and free flowing.

He hummed. "But perhaps I do have something for you, Will Henry." His eyes sparked.

Will leaned in closer, pulse skittering with equal parts anticipation and dread.

"Shall I tell you of our time in Manchester?"

Will nodded vigorously, lending an appreciative twinkle to Kearns’ smile.

"Excellent. I do love an enthusiastic audience," he said, settling into a more comfortable position atop the creaking car. "Let's see. Ah yes. Manchester, England! Much like my hometown, mind you. So in a sense, home sweet home! For me at least.

“For your father, I daresay it wasn't much to his liking. Not as wholesome as your little hamlet here.  Can't say he was delighted to see me there either, though I was most pleased to see him. How dreadful it is to be welcomed by a pair of surly acquaintances that profess to be one's friend! Though I can forgive your father for his transgression—he never really said anything of the sort, though I always considered him my friend."

"Really?" piped Will, eyes bright with the revelation.

"Of course. You know what they say: those you have the most fun around are one's friends, are they not?"

Will pursed his lips, searching for any counterpoint to Kearns' claim. Finding none, he shrugged.

"I guess that makes sense."

"A guess, Will Henry? That simply won't do. Not for an apprentice to Warthrop! Resolute facts and Warthrop’s dry resolve will bowl you over if you remain wishy-washy in your convictions.  _So_ _?"_

With the ruthless grin bearing down on him, Will felt like he was making a deal with the devil rather than agreeing to a simple statement.

He nodded. "Yes sir, that does make sense."

"See? That wasn't so hard."

"I gue—yes."

Kearns chuckled as Will caught himself, foot bouncing with his mirth. "Shall we continue, then? Where were we?” He tapped his chin.

“Ah yes! Manchester! Well, unlike me, your father and Warthrop were merely in the city for a few days, having nothing better to do than to thumb through some dusty old books at the John Dalton Library.  Pellinore needed some important newspaper accounts or periodicals—I didn't care at the time nor do I now. Some absurd accounts of black rainfall in Cornwall or something. Pellinore had decided to consult  _The Book of the Damned_  for more research and it led him to me. Despite the title, Will Henry, that book is a terrible bore. I wouldn't recommend giving in to your childish curiosity on that one!

“Anyway, seeing as Pellinore was in my neck of the woods as you say, I took him out to one of Manchester's most famous sights. Well, your father too…we always had to take your father. I would’ve also loved to visit the Imperial War Museum—they have a Soviet T-34 tank on display you know—but that was out of the cards. Plus I wasn't about to set foot in the Dalton Library. A trap if I ever saw one."

"So where did you go?"

"Why, to Curry Road, Will Henry!" exclaimed Kearns. "You see, you Americans are appallingly behind in international cuisine. So kind host I am, we took to the streets to one of the best curry houses in Manchester. Made even more enticing thanks to the incessant snowdrifts and flurries that attacked us like a swarm of blowflies. James always had a penchant for gathering snowflakes in his beard like a merry Christmas tree, so the poor guy looked positively miserable. And of course, Pellinore looked as if he could summon the sun itself if he wasn't grumbling so much. Like the conquerors of old, we stumbled into the establishment much like the blind leading the blind—save myself of course.  _I_ knew what I was doing." Kearns let out a bark of laughter.

"Of course James wanted to choose his own dish and despite my heartfelt warning, decided to go for the house Jalfrezi stir-fry. An excellent choice in my opinion as it is quite good. But poor James. He didn't realize how unrefined his bland American palette is." Kearns winked. “I've never seen a man chug a mango lassi as fast as James. Nor spit out his food so quickly. I think he set a record of some sort. It was definitely worth paying the entire meal to see your father crying over his food. The bonus was Pellinore making the most comical and peculiar of faces. Not to mention the waiter. Poor lad—though I did tip him generously for cleaning the mess!"

Entranced with the story, Will's head had bobbed up, honey eyes catching the gregarious grey. Something welled deep inside, past the tumor of lead, past the choking morass of smoke and flame. It sprung free, bubbling past his lips unbidden and made extraordinary due to the lack of it.

The tiniest gurgle of laughter.

Will clutched his shirt front to his lips, trying to stifle it. But it was no use.

He giggled.

“What is that strange sound?” hummed Kearns playfully. “If I didn’t know better, I would swear you are finding your father’s misfortune exceedingly funny. Not that I blame you.” Kearns flashed a smile at the boy.

“N-no, sir.” Another hiccupping giggle escaped. “It doesn’t seem like it should be funny.”

Despite his words, Will couldn’t help but continue to imagine his father, red-faced and miserable, tears streaming from his eyes. He’d seen something similar once when his father handled a pepper and forgot to wash his hands. He’d laughed then too. It was too ridiculous and comical to see his tough and resilient father reduced to tears from a vegetable, so his little boy’s heart had laughed.

“Ah, that is but the core of hilarity. It never seems like it should be.”  Arching his legs to his chest, Kearns catapulted himself off of the car’s hood, springing to his feet with an acrobat’s grace, arms held wide as if awaiting applause. The man cocked his head, grinning.

“How about you join me, Will Henry? I could use with a valuable assistant.”

Bemused, Will wandered to Kearns’ side.  “Are you going back inside?”

“Goodness no. As much as I miss the winsome presence of the officer, I haven’t quite reached a craving for his amicable company. An hour or two perhaps and ask me again. The monstrumologist however is another matter entirely…” Kearns reached the garage door and tossed it open. He turned. “Are you planning on returning to his side then, little Will?”

Will chewed his bottom lip, glancing up towards the closed kitchen door swathed in the dusky gloom. He nodded. “I want to try again. I…I think I can do it. Be his assistant.” Will swallowed. “I want to do my best.”

Kearns looked at the small boy, his nervous fiddling belied by the resolute firmness with which he said those few words. A strange intensity filtered from behind Kearns’ iron-clad eyes and the boy, once afraid, now held them firmly with his own.

“Has he bound you too?” The voice, stripped of its usual teasing tone, brushed the air softly as a moth’s wing.

“What do you mean?” came the child’s reply, soft and unsure.

The man only smiled, golden hair sparking beneath the empyreal blue sky. Then with the barest trace of laughter, he plunged into the shadowed niche of Harrington Lane.  

 

***

 

Thin smoke curled in the air, saturating the crisp tang of earth with the sweetness of burning tobacco. Grey-blue danced sporadically before dissipating.

Both Dr Warthrop and Officer Morgan had retreated outside after their heated exchange, realizing perhaps too late that their voices could have assailed the other two residents of the household. Leaving the rest of the groceries where they lay, Pellinore had ushered Morgan to the unfinished back porch, the exposed beams rotting from years of neglect and abandonment.

Robert had been immensely relieved to be outside, his quaking hand immediately plucking free the instrument to his one-and-only vice. The steady  _tap, tap_  of the tobacco can against his aged pipe punctuated the discord of wild birds twittering in the backyard as they foraged through the leaf litter.

The doctor sat upon the porch’s mossy edge, hugging his knees and staring across his father’s abandoned land, strangled by exposed root and serpentine vines.

"Why are you so adamant for me to adopt Will Henry, Robert? It goes contrary to your opinion of my ability to do so."

Several intermittent bursts of smoke escaped with the policeman's sigh. "Believe me. I have asked myself that question several times this past week, Warthrop. If I find an acceptable answer for that, I'll be sure to give it to you. Right now, even I’m not sure why I even bother."

Warthrop unwound from his seat upon the steps of his dilapidated structure, hands falling to knees as his feet found the creaking stair below. A breeze ruffled his overgrown hair and Warthrop breathed deep the familiar draught of his friend's tobacco and a backyard choked alive with growth.

"What about you?" asked Warthrop, glancing up at his friend whose startled face instantly fastened to his.

"Me? What's this all of a sudden?"

"You are very adamant in your reasoning that Will Henry stay because of James’ connection to myself. What if you took him in? You obviously have a regard for the child and you can easily care for him as you have none." Warthrop frowned. "Why haven't you considered this option before? In fact, it is foolish and an atrocity that this wasn't our first solution. It would be beneficial to Will Henry as he gets to stay in the community and live with someone that still has ties to James and I can still continue my research with Will Henry by my side."

Robert stared, mouth agape, before finding his voice.

"What sort of nonsense are you spewing? Of course I can’t take in William!"

Warthrop sulked at Robert's less-than-enthused reply. "Why ever not? It's a sound argument with mutual benefits."

"Mutual—my god Pellinore! Every time I visit, just when I think you can’t outdo yourself from before, you astound me with the most mind-boggling response yet!"

"You insult me, Robert. How is what I proposed not a well-thought out plan?"

Robert made a strangling noise that sounded very much like a leaky balloon. He plucked the old-fashioned bowl pipe from his lips and began smacking it dully against the cracked porch stud, emptying it of ash.

"Forgetting the very fact that I cannot, else I would have thought of that very idea myself, what you just said had to be the most selfish thing I’ve ever heard."

"How so? Will Henry gets to stay here in New Jerusalem close to the two people that know him best, and under the care of someone that obviously cares and understands him. How is that selfish?"

"How is that—? Did you even hear yourself the first time?"  asked Robert incredulously. "You said it will be 'mutually beneficial' because then Will could still work here with you! He's still a child and you think it's more important that he also work?"

Warthrop shook his head. "I do not see what the problem is. Will Henry will have free tutelage under an esteemed Monstrumologist—which I don’t have to offer nor do I extend to the multitudes of graduate students that clamor for my expertise!"

Robert packed another pinch of tobacco into the pipe's bowl, bits of it falling free in his agitation. He struck the matchhead against the heavy scorch mark on cheap box, the acrid snap unfurling beneath his nostrils. He inhaled deeply of the soothing balm and sighed. "Regardless of that, I cannot take Will Henry, though as you say, it might be an ideal plan."

"Why not?" Warthrop snapped.

"Well for one, given my career I wouldn’t be able to provide the care and attention a son would need. Sometimes I don't come home at all. I cannot abide that for any child I decide to take in." Robert leaned heavily on the creaking structure, pipe bobbing between his teeth as he worried it. "More so for my wife; I care for her wishes. And I know that she doesn't want her own children or to care for one personally. She enjoys her work with the community and church children, and believes her calling is to help as many as she can. Which she can't do if she's bound to only one. And that would not be fair to either Will or Sadako."

Sighing, Robert took a seat next to Pellinore, arms loose upon his legs as he regarded the wilderness before him. "I don't want to take that away from her."

Pellinore nodded, a sense of understanding tangible in the air. They become silent, save the whispery puff of Robert's pipe and the rustle of cloth as Pellinore leaned upon his forearms, hands cupped beneath his sharp chin. His eyes saw nothing and his face revealed nothing, his mind plunged deep into the intricacies of his innermost thoughts.

After emptying his pipe a second time and pocketing it, Morgan picked up a piece of pine straw caught on the flimsy stair railing. He twiddled it with his fingers then flicked it into the yard.

"On that matter, Pellinore, it’s also why I stopped by today." He looked over at his companion. Warthrop hadn't moved an inch but his dark eyes were trained on the policeman, attentive. "I was going to start the mock-up for candidates for Will Henry soon and I figured it'd be best to have your input through the process."

The eyes flit back, gazing into the tangle of beech wood and pine.

"My mentor is assisting as well."

"Your mentor? You mean the one you work for now?"

"I do not 'work’ for him, no. He _is_ the President of the Society but strictly speaking, I work for myself."

"Alright fine,” huffed Robert. “So, what do you mean by your mentor helping out?"

Pellinore sagged backwards, one hand bracing his weight, the other pushing back his hair. "I called Von Helrung the day after I brought home the boy. He thought it pivotal that we procure a sufficient home and family for him as well. He will be by next week or so, as his schedule permits."

"Well that is good, isn't it? Since it's not only your mentor, who you trust, but someone with connections to you and James—Will can still be tied with people that know him and his family."

"I suppose."

"You suppose?"

"Fine. It’s satisfactory. Besides yourself, I trust no other in this matter. And as his current guardian, I still have final say in his suitable replacement. Though Von Helrung employs good connections, there are some...people I would rather not waste my valuable intelligence even considering." He scoffed and plucked at his lower lip.

Robert gave an involuntary snort of laughter. "Glad to know I don't currently warrant the Warthropian brand of disapproval." He took off his glasses and rubbed his hand over his face. "But has Will been doing alright with you? He looks exhausted, but that's understandable given the circumstances." Glasses back in place, the sympathy there was undeniable. Warthrop turned away.

"He...is not what I expected."

Robert frowned. "What do you mean by that?"

Pellinore leaned forward, tugging an errant holly leaf that poked through the porch railing, running his thumb over the glossy surface. Then he released it.

"He is not like many children I have encountered before."

"Well, he is Will. Though I do admit he has been much quieter and withdrawn than before."

"Hmm."

“Would you like me to come back in two weeks then? I don’t want to intrude on your mentor’s visit and since I can’t give you an exact time thanks to work—“

“Yes, that will be fine.”

Robert stood up. “I should be going. But Pellinore…are you sure?”

Pellinore glanced at his friend, then looked away. His hands wavered where they hung loosely upon his legs. Opening and closing, as if he was trying to catch something just out of his reach but was afraid to do so.

“Yes. Like you said, Robert—this cannot be something I can be indecisive about.” His hands closed. They did not open again. “It is not good for a child to stay where he is unwanted.”

With that, Warthrop surged to his feet and strode into the gloomy house, leaving Morgan alone upon the disintegrating remains of his father’s legacy.  


 

 


	10. Awake, Yet You See Nothing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Folio II: Stirrings
> 
> "My heart weld shut, nothing tighter.  
> With every loss, a subsequent stitch to bound the wound.  
> How was I to know you would be my undoing?”

A soft drumming enveloped the house at 425 Harrington Lane, the gentle susurration blanketing the home in a comforting hush. It fell steadily, dripping with a sure rhythm against the shingled roof. A refreshing, yet chilled air filled the small attic bedroom where a small boy slept soundly beneath a single window. The warped glass swam with rivulets of shimmering rain, flecks of the blue-grey morning captured down their trailing paths.

The boy shifted, burrowing deeper into his covers. A small crop of hair poked through as he nestled his face into the warmth. He settled with a sigh of contentment, little hand grasping the faded quilt close to his slightly open mouth.

The rain continued to beat, accompanied by the soft exhalations of the sleeping boy.  After a while, his face furrowed, nose wrinkling. Then he sneezed.

Eyes blinking blearily, the boy bunched his quilt in his fist and wiped his nose. Rolling over to his side, he fixed his gaze out the window, trying to make sense of his surroundings. Beyond the veil of gently churning rain, the hazy outline of the two-story house across the street fluctuated in the mist, its lone 'For Sale' sign flapping sullenly in the downpour.

Will pulled himself up, sitting cross-legged upon the covers. Yawning, he rubbed at his eyes, feeling the tell-tale scratch of sleepiness at the corners. Even with the socks upon his feet, they were still cold and he shivered, not happy with the prospect of having to get out of his toasty warm bed and ousting himself into the attic's chilling bite.

But he knew he had to; after all, the doctor had insisted he have his assistant with him in the lab today.

Counting to ten, Will took a deep breath, prepared for the inevitable. Flinging off the covers, Will hurled himself out of bed and quickly chucked off his sleepwear. His body immediately broke out in goosebumps and shivering, Will shoved himself into one of the few clean clothes he had left.

He hoped the doctor didn't plan on taking up all his time today; besides the homework he still hadn't finished and was due tomorrow, he wanted to try and do the laundry. He never done it before, but like everything else, he figured he could do it if he looked it up. It wasn't as if Dr Warthrop planned on doing it any time soon and Will was re-wearing his last pair of socks.

Looking around, Will suddenly remembered that that was also the second reason he wanted to do the laundry: his only jacket was soiled and he still hadn't asked for a spare. Rubbing his arms, a shiver wracked his body before Will took to his little ladder.

As soon as he flipped open the trap door, inviting warmth beckoned him forward. Something tantalizingly sweet filled the air with a beguiling aroma and for a stark second, the boy froze. This was not the scent of the doctor's home, slightly dusty with a lingering pang of decrepit wood and stale papers. This was too familiar…a buttery scent that often permeated his weekend mornings with his family.

Not knowing what to make of it, Will went to the bathroom to relieve himself and wash up. He paused at that too, as it was both warm and damp inside, recently used. Will stared dumbly at the fogged mirror before making use of the facilities. In all his weeks at Harrington Lane, the doctor had never woke up earlier than he did. If he even slept at all. So like yesterday, it must be the doctor's friend that was already up and about.

Like with Dr Warthrop, Will didn't know what to make of Dr Kearns, the man who ruthlessly toyed and teased him all morning yesterday, only to distract him from his troubling emotions with story about his father and giving him some routine chore. It seemed to Will that the one thing they shared in common besides their title was their propensity for giving him work to do.

As he made his way down the stairs the scent grew, an enticing mix of frying cinnamon and vanilla. His mouth watered and his stomach clamored happily. Forgetting himself, his little legs launched him into the kitchen to a most astonishing surprise.

He skidded to a halt at the table, now completely bare. There were no piles of paperwork, messy or pretending to be neat. No half-filled teacups or even the chipped laptop. It was ruthlessly clean, something his mother would’ve approved of.

A gurgling noise grabbed his attention, revealing a percolator bubbling and infusing the room with the bold scent of brewing coffee. On the counter were several slices of bread, stacked neatly next to a mixing bowl filled with a creamy batter.

Entranced, Will wandered to the stove. Atop the hum of gas sat a lidded frying pan. The scent of vanilla and cinnamon was too much for Will and he plucked off the cover.

Instantly his excited face was bathed in scented steam and his eyes hungrily took in the sight of grilled toast in the pan. He never seen anything like it. Who fried toast in a pan? But it smelled so good, and it had butter bubbling at the edges.

 _Who was making this?_ There was no way it was the doctor—the man who barely ate himself and hardly knew his way around his own kitchen to put away the groceries properly.

Will nibbled his lip. He was famished. Last night he scarcely ate anything, having no real appetite for the leftover pasta and too drained from the entire day's ordeal, succumbed to his need for sleep instead.

To the side was a spatula. Will snatched it, dragging his eyes back to the pan.

It would burn if he didn't flip it over now, he thought. It had to be the doctor's friend who was cooking this and he didn't want Dr Kearns mad at him if he let his food burn. Though the very idea that the smirking Englishman was capable of cooking such a homey and sweet meal as almost as wild as imagining the grumpy doctor doing it.

The image popped into his head of the dour-faced Dr Warthrop who, instead of his stained and yellowed lab-coat with his bloody gloves and scalpel, was clad with his mother's frilly apron, dusted with flour and holding a spatula.

Will stifled his laughter. It wouldn't do to laugh out loud, in case Dr Warthrop decided to come at that precise moment and demand to know what was so funny. But the image refused to leave, instead becoming animated as Warthrop started demanding he _‘Snap to!’_ and banished his spatula menacingly.

He giggled. Instantly Will clamped his hands to his traitorous mouth.

"Is something so amusing this morning? I do love a good joke to start the day. Almost as much as breakfast."

Will jumped, spatula hurtling from his hands. It landed with a dull thump on the tiled floor.

Kearns laughed as he bent over to pick it up. "That won't do, little assistant," he said, flipping the spatula over in his fingers. "I am quite ravenous from keeping late hours with your doctor, Will. I might be a guest here but our host seems to have misplaced his manners. Me! Resorting to making my own breakfast! What a tragedy. I daresay that is a most peculiar expression you are wearing, Will Henry!"

Will clamped his mouth shut, face reddening. He felt as if he just got caught doing something naughty.

"I wasn't going to ruin it. I just...I just wanted to flip it so it wouldn't burn."

"Why didn't you say so! Here." Kearns thrust the utensil in Will's hand. "I'll put you in charge of breakfast then. You can be my sous chef! Have you ever made French toast before?"

"No sir.” Will beheld the tool in his hand. “I helped my mother cook before so I learned how to cook some things. Like pancakes."

"Ah, the American hotcake. Yes. Those are quite good. I would have tried that but Pellinore seems to lack baking powder. Without it, sadly you would have a British pancake."

Will returned to the stove and flipped the bread. "There's a difference?"

"Oh yes. Though in truth, they are merely crepes but we refuse to call them that. We simply can't abide French things—it’s tradition you see—so in true British fashion, we absconded it and made it our own. Preposterous language, French." Kearns pulled a face before pulling a plate from the stack on the counter. "Here, it should be ready."

Dutifully, Will removed the sizzling toast and placed in Kearns' hands.

"Jolly good!" He covered it with a cloth and popped it in the microwave. "Now here, let me show you how to prepare it. Take a slice of bread there. Now dip it in the batter...yes, like that! Both sides too, Will! It's alright if it soaks it up a lot—makes for a better toast."

Taking the slice in both hands, Will laid it carefully in the pan after Kearns knifed in a generous slab of butter. The instantaneous hiss of the batter hitting the heated pan gave Will a thrill of satisfaction. He scooted over to wash his hands in the sink, leaning in on tiptoe to reach the faucet.

"Should I fetch the doctor?" asked Will, taking his place at the stove again. Kearns was lounging against the countertop, and his head snapped up from where he had been idly inspecting his nails.

"Feeling ill? Why call Pellinore when you have a perfectly good physician here?" Kearns bestowed Will with one of his winsome smiles followed by an exaggerated wink.

Will frowned, ignoring the man’s playful antics. He looked back at the pan. "Does the doctor even like French toast?"

Kearns blinked coquettishly. "Whatever makes you think he doesn't?"

Will flipped the toast, face scrunched as he tried to imagine the doctor even eating breakfast to begin with. He promptly gave up and shrugged.

"I don't know. He does eat pop tarts though...so I guess?"

Kearns walked around Will. The percolator wheezed out the last dregs of coffee and clots of steam before it died. Pulling a mug from the cabinet overhead, Kearns began fixing himself a mug.

"Well, if you would like to test your curiosity, Warthrop can be found in his dungeon. As usual. Though you do know what they say about sleeping dragons!" said Kearns with a laugh. The chipped mug clinked merrily as he stirred in his sugar and cream.

Balancing the finished toast on the spatula, Will opened the microwave to put it in with the others. He clicked the door shut and with a look back towards Kearns—who merely raised a brow and took a sip of his coffee—Will went to the open basement door.

Normally the opening was swamped with bright fluorescence. Instead, it was dark, with a soft light emanating from some corner of the laboratory. The topaz specks fluctuated in the gloom, wavering as if they were a dusting of a million tiny stars.

Hesitating for a moment, Will plunged into the darkness, the warmth from his body dragged as if by invisible hands. Will took each stair uncertainly, stepping as quietly as he could and with hands gripped tightly around the rail.

Will called softly into the gloom. "Sir? Dr Warthrop?"

Even with the pale light, it was hard to see anything. Each nook and cranny seemed to ooze dark, clustering in the edges like a collection of stains. Will turned his head, trying to find the doctor as his eyes adjusted to the lack of light, but no one was there.

Will looked behind him at the small opening of light above, wondering if the doctor's friend was playing a trick on him. Will twisted his hands around the smooth railing. His eyes fell, watching as his fingers curled around the wood, streaks of soft orange fading and reappearing as he fidgeted.

Taking a breath, Will released his hands and took the final step into the basement, feeling the cold seep into his socks.

"Dr Warthrop?"

Like lost traveler, Will picked his way to the meagre light in the corner. He passed the doctor's instrument cart, its top littered with a haphazard array of tools. Each shone with specks of false crimson hue, each tool meticulously cleaned. The doctor's sink area was a tad disheveled, aglow in the small desk lamp.

Rounding the end of the necropsy table, Will, transfixed by the ethereal glow of the amber colored liquid with their macabre specimens, almost collided with another piece of furniture, one that had not been there the last time Will was down there with the doctor. Will drew back at the sight before him, one almost as surreal as the thought of Dr Kearns preparing breakfast.

Lying prone upon a little canvas cot was Dr Warthrop, sound asleep. The cot was much too small and much too short, as the thin man had scrunched himself to fit. He lay on his side, one arm dangled over the edge, his long fingers grazing the floor. A baggy sweatjacket kept the chill at bay, draped over the doctor. The scant amount of light strayed across his exhausted features, gently picking the slight movement of his chest as he breathed and deepening the shadows against his stumbled cheeks.

Overcome by sheer curiosity, Will inched closer. It was a sight to behold, the indomitable whirlwind of a doctor who never seemed to need any sort of sustenance or human necessities, asleep like child, face half-shoved into another bunched-up jacket. For Will, it looked mildly uncomfortable and he wondered at how tired the man must have been to fall asleep here rather than in his own bed. Unless the doctor had merely wished to be closer to the one thing that constantly drove him into perpetual motion, not even removing himself from its grip to rest.

Will vacillated between wanting to wake the doctor to eat some breakfast—his face was so gaunt and haggard he feared the man was half-starving—and wanting to leave him there to catch up on his massive sleep debt.

After a few minutes of indecisiveness Will choose the latter, figuring that while food can wait, once awake Warthrop would be hard-pressed to go back to sleep.

Quietly Will returned to the kitchen and shut the basement door.

 

***

 

Once again Will found himself partaking of breakfast directly across from Dr Kearns, who not only managed to eat his breakfast at the same time as he read the Sunday paper but did it all one-handed, slicing into his French toast with practiced ease and popping each piece into his mouth.

When he returned from the basement, Will set the table for breakfast, preparing Kearns' toast the way he liked it ( _Powdered sugar only, please. That's the ticket!)_ and giving into his own sweet tooth, Will dumped his liberally with maple syrup. Kearns had given a little dismayed cry before shaking his head, muttering about 'American palates'.

Will finished his slice of toast and craving another, went to prepare another when the basement door creaked open. Will’s head snapped towards the sound.

The newspaper rustled. "How nice of you to join us, Pellinore. Care for some breakfast?"

Warthrop stared dumbly at Kearns for a few seconds, eyes narrowed as if Kearns asked some perplexing riddle. Then he straightened, his sweatjacket falling to a heap at his feet. Scowling, Warthrop snatched his jacket and shuffled over to Will's seat, throwing himself down. His scowl deepened when he looked down at Will's syrupy plate.

"How am I supposed to eat breakfast when someone has already eaten it?" grumped Pellinore.

Kearns turned a page. "Perhaps if you came when called, your food wouldn't have been scavenged by little children."

Pellinore threw a scathing look towards Kearns, who paid no attention, engrossed in his news. He cast a sullen look about the room, eyes flicking over Will as he cooked more toast. They instantly fell upon the digital ticker on the microwave.

"9 AM? Kearns! It's 9 AM!"

"Why, so it is."

"I told you I was going to take a nap!"

"And so you did. Really Pellinore, I'm starting to think the formaldehyde is getting to your brain."

"It is not! I specifically told you to wake me up at an appropriate hour!"

"And it is, my dear Pellinore. Here you are! And not only that, there is breakfast to be served by none other than your dear assistant-apprentice."

"That's not what I meant and you know it," snapped Pellinore.

"Oh? Well then," purred Kearns, delicately folding his paper and laying it upon the table. "I do recall telling a certain someone that I planned on sleeping. And that in his own best interests he should too." Kearns leaned back in his chair and slowly placed a bite of toast into his mouth.

"Fine. But you will not escape your promise, Jack."

Kearns grinned wickedly, tapping fork against his teeth. "Oh? What would that be?"

Pellinore mumbled something to Will as he slid a slice of toast onto his now-appropriated plate.

"I didn't quite catch that."

"You promised to help me."

Kearns merely raised a brow for him to continue.

"And Will Henry," added Pellinore. "You are the best man for this, John—I need your expertise." The doctor's gaze was fixed on his breakfast before him for a moment. Then snapping out of his strange reverie, Pellinore grabbed Will's fork and knife and began cutting his toast into pieces.

"How reassuring."

"What do you mean by that?"

"Oh, nothing. I will stay for the week as I promised. It is where I planned on vacationing anyway. Nothing like catching up with a dear old friend, mm?"

Pellinore mutely chewed around a mouthful of his breakfast. "I suppose."

At that Kearns laughed and held up his coffee in mock toast. "My, aren't you two the pair?"

"Who?"

"You and your little assistant!"

Warthrop looked over to Will, who had a fresh plate of toast for himself. A peculiar pair, the bedraggled doctor with his stubbly face full of food and the orphan, without a place to sit.

"Will Henry, where is your seat?"

"You took it, sir."

"I did not. This is my seat, Will Henry. It always has been."

Will looked over to 'his' seat, the one occupied by Kearns.

"Well, sir. Dr Kearns is in my chair then."

"Not at all. I was here first, as you may recall."

"I'll just get one of the dining room chairs then."

"Why didn't you think that in the first place, Will Henry?"

"Yes, why didn't you, Will Henry?" joined in Kearns, eyes dancing.

Will just stared at Warthrop as the man began shoveling in the rest of his toast, suddenly finding his appetite.

"I...I don't know sir," replied Will lamely. The doctor's plate (or his old one rather) was now spotless, the man using every bite of his French toast to sop up the maple syrup.

"Well, snap to, Will Henry! Unless you enjoy cold breakfast." As Will shuffled to grab himself a new chair, the doctor added, "And when you get back, another toast please. Contrary to what I thought, I find myself quite famished."

Will sighed. _Now_ his breakfast was now going to be cold.

"What did I tell you, Pellinore? Feeling better?"

"Shut up, Jack. You didn’t do anything. This is a simple human necessity; you cannot take credit for that."

"Ah but in your case, I rather think I can."

Pellinore huffed. "In any case, I will need you immediately after breakfast. I finished the notes after you left but I need some clarification on some environmental factors that I’m not privy towards. Plus I would like to redo the...tests from last night."

At the significant pause, Will stole a glance, only to see two bursts of color splash the man's cheeks.

Pellinore coughed and snatched the newspaper, turning to some random page in the middle. "The results were skewed and need to be redone to my satisfaction."

As Will slipped Pellinore's second helping on his plate, Kearns asked for another as well, ruffling the boy's hair as he turned and trudged back to the stove.

"Thank you Will, there's a lad! You are a treasure. Perhaps I shall steal you away from our dear Pellinore here." Kearns laughed at how quickly the doctor's head snapped from where he was cutting his toast. "Now no need to make that face, Pellinore. I can't very well pack Will into my knapsack. Though airport security is rather lax. I don't think they would even notice I have a small stowaway." Kearns chuckled as he got up and strolled to the coffee pot.

"In regards to that, when are you leaving?"

"That eager to be rid of me?"

"No," replied Pellinore, taking a swig of Will's abandoned milk glass. "I just wished to be made aware of how much time I have with you before you escape out of here."

"Ah. In that case, Sunday. Midnight."

"Midnight?"

"Fitting, isn't it? The witching hour. I say that has a nice ring to it, wouldn't you agree? Given what I'll be encountering!"

"Why such an obscure flight?"

"Oh, you know the reason why Pellinore, if you decide to think hard enough. After all, your father did similar things if I’m not mistaken."

Pellinore screwed his face in distaste and stabbed several bits of toast at once. "It’s that dire of a situation then," he mused. "Who else is all involved?"

"No one significant. It isn't as big as the Elian Gonzalez case...yet. We don't have Cuba tied into this as far as we know. Seems to be a pretty straightforward case with the Columbian-Mexico route. And that's out of my hands."

"So why are you going to Puerto Rico?"

Kearns took a sip of his coffee, tasting it. Finding it satisfactory, he returned to his seat where Will had placed his second helping of toast.

"It was the investigation into the boy's family. It didn't end when I received his most generous donation, mind you!" Kearns popped in several bits of toast, chewing while he continued. "It's US territory but apparently his immediate family weren’t citizens. Most peculiar to the authorities. You know how they are about illegal immigrants." Kearns swallowed, releasing a bark of laughter.

Warthrop nodded and pushed his plate to the middle of the table. Finishing his milk, he put the empty glass atop it. Finally able to join the adults, Will sat back down with his second helping. Stomach leading him on, Will began digging in, eagerly scooping up the piping hot breakfast.

Hearing the clink of silverware, Warthrop glanced at the boy. "Will Henry, have you finished yet? Kearns and I have finished already and I would like to get back to work as soon as possible."

Will looked stricken, ogling the doctor in dismay. He chewed his food, feeling the taste become replaced with sandy nothingness. He swallowed. "No, sir. I just sat down. I'll try to finish quickly."

"Hmph. Do not dawdle, Will Henry. I finished before you and I was last to the table."

Will decided it best that he just comply with the doctor's demand, rather than try and point out that it was the doctor that had interrupted his repast in the first place and had finished his meal while Will cooked everyone else’s!

Kearns placed his mug upon the table. "Sadly, I shall not be joining you, Pellinore. No need to rush the poor boy."

Pellinore sat stiffly in his seat, hands gripping the edge of the table. "What?"

"Exactly what I meant. My, Pellinore, you are definitely only half-awake this morning. Perhaps it is a good thing I have an errand to attend to."

"An errand? You have an errand? What kind of errand do you have in New Jerusalem? You don't live here to have an errand!"

"Believe it or not, I do have a life outside your work. I am no James Henry."

Pellinore deflated, though his knuckles strained harshly against the table's edge. Will shoveled food faster into his mouth, just in case something happened to prevent him from finishing his meal.

"When will you get back?" asked Warthrop dejectedly.

"Who knows? I can't profess to be God and understand the whims of another." Kearns winked. He tapped his chin, lifting his eyes to the ceiling as he pondered. "After noon perhaps. I shan't miss our little appointment in the basement. Believe me; I do keep my promises, Pellinore. And I rather think you will get along splendidly without me—you do have your loyal assistant here, do you not? Plus you did want to train him up and he is most eager. Given yesterday, I fear I have had more than time in your presence than your protégé here!"

Kearns got up and dumped his and Pellinore's dishes into the sink. Pulling his arm behind his head, he stretched languidly, his golden countenance catching stray strands of pale blue from the rain-soaked sunlight.

"Mm, well I’m off. I can't be late for this appointment as much as I'd like to stay. Even for your most esteemed company, Pellinore." Kearns walked by and laid a hand on the man's shoulder, which was promptly shrugged off.

"Now don't be angry with me, Pellinore. I did say I would return. I can't very well let my findings go on without me, yes?"

Pellinore hissed through his teeth, stubbornly staring straight ahead rather than at his friend.

"Oh pooh, it seems I made you upset. I shall have to make it up to you then when I get back."

"Just leave, Kearns," snapped Warthrop.

"As you command, my dear monstrumologist!" And with that, Kearns left through the garage door.

Neither Will nor Warthrop spoke. The rumble of the garage door could be heard, echoing dully amongst the silence. Pierced by the screeching roar of Kearns' motorcycle, it fled from the house. With a howl, Kearns gave chase, disappearing into the soft drizzle that veiled the tiny neighborhood.

Finally finished with his breakfast, Will placed his dishes with the doctors'. Looking back, Warthrop still hadn't moved an inch, entire being calcified with whatever emotion had taken hold of him. His face was carefully blank—evading any feeling that roiled deep within his dormant facade.

Will fidgeted with his sleeves, unsure what to do. He stood there for a few awful moments wracked with uncertainty and indecision, before attempting to pull the man from whatever inner refuge he had retreated to.

"Dr Warthrop? Sir?"

The doctor made no response. He continued to sit still, though his eyes fell slightly.

"Yes?"

"I finished now."

The eyes fell closed. And shuttered the last vestige of any of the emotion that currently entrapped him.

"Put the kettle on, Will Henry. We will get to work once we have tea."

With that simple, habitual command, Will felt slightly more stable. Whatever had happened, Will would make tea. The doctor would drink it and together they would fall back into their routine. The doctor would bury himself neck-deep in his work, taking Will along with him. Will could handle that. He had done well so far, no matter how many times he almost got dragged under.

He had to.

And he had a feeling the doctor was no different.

 

***

 

Scraping the inner mucous membrane off one of the worms, Warthrop prepared two separate slides: one for himself and one for his colleague in New York. She would have interest in such a find and more importantly, she would keep mum about it.

 _Scritch, scritch_ went the scalpel as it grated against the slim glass.  With an eyedropper, Pellinore placed a dab of preserving solution on each slide then sandwiched it underneath a fine piece of glass.

"Here. Seal this one as well, Will Henry." Without looking up from his work, Warthrop handed over the extra slide. A pair of fingers pinched the sample and vanished over the doctor's shoulder. The squeak and snap of cellophane chafed on Pellinore's hearing and he hunched his shoulders to his ears, hoping to drown out the noise.

"Put that in the case with the others when you're finished. I'll have Dr von Helrung deliver them to my contact in SoHo for verification of my findings. After you have secured that, find an envelope on my desk over there. A pen too, Will Henry! I need to craft a letter." Pellinore fluttered his fingers and the scurry of feet behind him told him the boy had done what he asked.

Though it was of utmost necessity to write Ms Cooper in regards to the roundworms, especially in delivering his strict instructions towards chemical testing and sequencing, he was still in a foul mood regarding Dr Kearns. Ms Cooper's letter could wait—he had all week. Even a day or two after Kearns had to leave. But after mishandling the tests last night, not only had that doubled his need to delve into his own theories and solve for himself this perplexing question, it was compounded by the fact that his mere human weakness had caused him to skew the results.

He ran a hand over his face, tamping down his embarrassment at his juvenile mistakes.

What did Kearns have to do that required him to be away when there was more important work to be done? At least Jack was right in that aspect: he was no James Henry, the assistant who understood this very simple, yet fundamental aspect of his research.

Grumbling, Pellinore turned, only to jump slightly at the small boy that stood immediately at his elbow.

"Will Henry! Must you stand so close to me like some servant waiting on my every whim? It is entirely suffocating. Here, take James' stool. Sit there."

The boy did as he said, perched upon the worn stool with notebook in hand and situated to the side of Pellinore's feet.

The doctor deliberated how to start his letter, rubbing his chin as he rocked back in his office chair. However, the sight of the eager child by his side kept pulling his thoughts from where they needed to go.  The sight uncomfortably reminded him of having some sort of stray dog at his feet.

As the minutes past, it irked him to the point of distraction. Unable to concentrate, he barked at the child to move closer to the wall. The boy jolted, his large brown eyes stricken and he yanked the chair further away. What had once irked him now aggravated him, though he couldn't pinpoint why. He had the barest inkling that the child acted as if he was someone...someone not at all pleasant. And that irritated him further. Why would the boy be upset with him when he provided him with a home and the attentions of his profession?

Pellinore stared down at the boy, trying to decipher the expression on the boy's face. It was hard to do with him steadfastly refusing to look up, instead watching his hands as they twiddled a pen.

"Is something the matter, Will Henry?"

The boy's face shot up, eyes large in his small face. They quickly fled, looking everywhere else but at him. He worried his lips.

"It wasn't a difficult question, Will Henry," stated the doctor, frowning.

"No, sir."

"'No, sir'?'' cried Warthrop, losing his patience. “’No, sir' in that you are agreeing with me that it wasn't a difficult question or 'no, sir' that there isn't anything the matter?"

The boy pouted, brows drawing close as if he was upset about something.

"Both, sir. I meant both." His voice had a grating hitch to it.

Warthrop continued to stare down at the boy, who refused to regard him at all. Feeling a headache coming on, Warthrop sighed. "I see. Well, if nothing is the matter, then shall we continue?"

"I am ready, sir."

Warthrop scowled at the boy's cheeky reply, at the implication that perhaps he, _the professional,_ was not ready, but instead he held his tongue. Better to ignore it for now; it would get him nowhere and he was already pressed for time. He could not afford to waste his precious time arguing with James' obstinate child.

Rising to his feet, he began his recitation, the various gestures of his thin hands punctuating the air as to the import of each statement and each query to his colleague, Ms Aisley Cooper. He hoped, as with James, that Will would begin to understand the significance of everything he said. He flicked his eyes towards the boy who, despite his little show of impudence, he was dutifully taking down his notes.

Warthrop paused momentarily, observing the way the boy held the pen in the same matter as James, and like him, held the same inherent skill at clean and precise penmanship. Even the way he stooped over the floppy notebook upon his lap was reminiscent of James, small reddish tufts of hair poking up every which way.

Noting the pause in his oration, the boy looked up uncertainly with the same honey colored eyes James always had. Except instead of the unceasing adoration and laughter that flickered behind them, there was a veiled sorrow, dull and lackluster.

Warthrop jerked away, hand flying to shield his face as a torrent of emotion surged inside of him, attempting to claw its way out. He swallowed, desperate to control his accelerated breathing that beat with the rapid tune of his heart.

"Sir?"

The small voice sounded frail. Scraping and raw against the thundering pulse that overwhelmed his hearing. It buzzed against his skull, stifling his senses until his head pounded and thoughts swam into an undulating grey mass of vomited color.  Pellinore willed his eyes shut and forced his arms against his sides. Open and close. He regulated his harried breaths to the rhythm.

Open. Close. Open—

"Let us continue Will Henry."

His hands snapped shut and he whirred, throwing himself back into his litany from before.

 

***

 

Dr Jack Kearns kept his promise.

He returned back to Harrington Lane lighter in step and infinitely merrier, if that kind of change was even remotely possible in a man already overfilled with such an attribute. He burst through the door in the most extravagant way possible, his athletic frame positively thrumming with radiant energy. There was no other word for it: he was completely and utterly invigorated.

Despite his grandiose entrance and his subsequent meddling and badgering afterwards, both Will and the doctor were inexplicably relieved that he had returned.

Will had felt like he was walking on a No-Man's-Land of razor wire with every word and action delivered in the presence of the short-tempered Dr Warthrop. For him, Dr Kearns was the tank that ran all of that away, leaving Will feeling more calm and less anxious than he had been all morning.

For Pellinore, he had someone to work with, one that wasn't a child who needed constant upkeep and seemed to speak and live in a language he did not understand. Granted, so did Dr Kearns, but Warthrop was used to his peculiarities. With Will Henry, no matter what he did, he couldn't seem to get through to the child.

With a wink, Kearns clapped both of his hands to Will’s shoulders and directed towards the kitchen table. He urged him playfully to finish his homework and that afterwards, Will could get started on the laundry by emptying all the hampers upstairs. Completely blindsided, Will allowed himself to be pushed to his old seat and watched in uncomprehending awe as Warthrop himself was treated to the same, being pressed down the stairs despite his grumbles and protests.

When they didn't return, Will blindly went to grab his backpack that had been banished to the ancient buffet where all the doctor's previous paperwork and laptop had been set aside for breakfast. It was too disconcerting for Will to begin to understand what had just happened, so he stopped trying to figure it out.

Like yesterday, both the doctor and Kearns remained in the basement for the majority of the day, only emerging for dinner: a simple fare cooked by Will that only Kearns ate. After that, Kearns was delighted at Will's diligence in apprehending all of the soiled clothes (Even mine! Well well, Will Henry I am most surprised! I feel like I’m most certainly at a five-star hotel!) Like breakfast, Kearns quickly showed Will how to start and fill the laundry machine and asked him to remove certain garments to air-dry while the rest were to be dried by the machine.

With a grin, Kearns disappeared into the basement, stating that Will go to bed at a decent hour, as they had no more need of his services, indispensable as they were.

Compared to the week before, it passed by as quick as one of Kearns' many teasing winks. Sunday came and went and before Will knew it, he was getting ready for school and going to bed earlier than he’d ever been. Though no one told him to go to bed, no one was clamoring up the stairwell either, demanding he take part in burning the midnight oil at the doctor's side.

For the most part, Kearns kept the doctor occupied with his work, which allowed Will the freedom to do what he needed to. Though Will found it lonely, especially when the rumbles of the doctor's laughter softly echoing from the open basement doorway, it brought a strange tentative tranquility to him. His hands hardly shook when he tried to keep them still. Sometimes when he was attempting this homework, his mind would wander as usual, churning rapidly through various thoughts and memories, but it didn't cause his entire body to tighten to the point where he felt as if he was going to snap in half.

Now his mind mostly strayed between trying to decipher the two men that currently resided with him and thoughts of his parents in happier times. He still thought about the tale given to him by Kearns since it often served as a key to other memories he had forgotten. Like how his dad once allowed him to try one of his favorite cinnamon candies despite his warning that they were hot and how he laughed when Will’s face turned bright red as he tried not to spit it out. Or how they got ice cream afterwards because his tongue still felt like it was on fire. Or how his father then got in trouble with his mother for 'ruining their appetites', though Will suspected it more had to do with the fact she had made his father's favorite pecan tart as a surprise.

School was a bit more bearable as well. Figures and letters didn’t flit and dance in his head like babbling pigeons until all Will wanted to do his lay his head on the desk and nap them away. Also, Will didn’t find himself desperately seeking solitude at lunch, even once sitting with his friends on his own, though he didn’t make conversation. He was just content to sit and listen. Will managed to stay on top of his schoolwork yet his grades remained only satisfactory, which often earned small sighs of disapproval from his teacher who knew Will was capable of so much better.

So for the most part, Will just shoved his ever-increasing packet of C work into a folder in his backpack and never looked at them again. He didn't want the pang of his own disappointment and failure staring back at him and it wasn't like the doctor cared anyway. So what was the point on dwelling on it? He would just work harder and bring home A’s and B’s the next time he could.

When Friday came around, Will was surprised to not only see Dr Kearns eating a simple breakfast of toast and eggs but the doctor as well. Both men were engaged in small talk, uncharacteristically subdued.  

Whenever Will saw the men throughout the week, they were always animated, bantering amongst themselves as usual. Sometimes Kearns wasn't home for periods of time, but his return always fetched Warthrop from his hiding place. Nothing could budge Kearns from whatever task he set his mind to so his return marked Warthrop actually having to partake in human subsistence or attending to his personal ablutions.

One such day had the doctor returning with some resemblance of having shaved. Kearns had raised a brow at all the dabs of septic and tissue that marred his chin and throat, and asked him rhetorically whether he had reverted back to being a teenager.

They greeted Will, Kearns with a flash of teeth and Warthrop with a grunt as he nibbled forlornly on some toast.

"Ah Will, good morning! Sleep well?"

Dragging his borrowed dining room chair to the spot between the two men, Will replied, "Yes sir, I've been sleeping well, thank you."

Warthrop grunted again.

"Ignore him. He's been absolutely dreadful all morning."

"Oh do shut up, Kearns."

Kearns tsked as he pushed the plate of buttered toast towards Will. "Now don't go blaming your test's inconclusiveness on me, Pellinore. I am not your whipping boy," said Kearns silkily. "Isn't that why you spent all that time having little Willy here pen out your letter to Ms Cooper?"

Pellinore harrumphed. "That does not mean I am entirely pleased with the outcome. I was hoping have some compelling evidence towards my hypothesis by the end of the week." He glared at his mug before shoving it at Will. "I require tea, Will Henry."

Kearns laughed. "Forever after your Questing Beast, aren't you?"

The doctor snatched another piece of toast and narrowed his eyes at it, cheek in his other hand, looking as if he was contemplating the complexities of the universe rather than a toasted slice of bread.

"I wanted to find irrefutable evidence by the end of the week," replied Warthrop. "Now I only have two days to do so." He chomped into the toast.

Kearns regarded Pellinore, eyes half-hidden beneath their lids.

"Why is that? What drives you, my dear Pellinore?"

Stopping mid-chew, Pellinore cast his dark eyes towards his companion across the table. He swallowed his bite and straightened, placing his toast on the plate before taking hold of his mug given over by Will.

"I wanted to get it done while I had..." Pellinore frowned into his cup. Then took a sip of the hot beverage. "Dr von Helrung will be here in less than a week and I wish to have everything completed on my end so he may deliver my findings personally. There is no one else I trust with assuring my work is dealt with diligently and correctly than von Helrung. I do not wish to miss this opportunity."

Kearns eyes closed as he bowed his head, smile playing upon his lips. He leaned back in his chair, coffee cup in hand. He dipped his chin in the barest of nods.

"Of course. Ever the pragmatist, my dear Pellinore." He took a long sip of the draught, teeth obscenely bright against the darkness of the coffee.

"We should make the most of your time while I'm here then, mm?"

Warthrop cocked his head at his friend’s statement before nodding himself. “Of course. That has always been my prerogative.”

And with that Kearns laughed. But to Will, it rang hollow.

 

***

 

Will returned home and as usual, the door was unlocked and there wasn't anyone to greet him. He was slightly sore trudging to his customary spot at the kitchen table—his baseball buddies had begged him to play a game with them, after putting them off for a week. His back ached from all the pop flies he had to scramble after.

Tossing his backpack on the floor next to his chair, Will dragged himself to the fridge, pouring himself a liberal glass of orange juice and snatching one of the yoghurts from the ice drawer.

Sitting in his chair, Will ate his snack quickly. For the first time in weeks, there was something he wanted to jot down into his journal. He haven’t felt like writing anything personal, keeping only to his school assignments but something funny had happened at school. Not wanting to forget it, he was anxious to record it in his journal.

Ever since meeting him, Malachi had been a very good friend to Will. He was glad to have met the high schooler though he had been afraid at first—he didn't know how to act around an older boy. But Malachi was always interested in hearing what Will wished to tell him, listening patiently and even giving Will his space when he didn't feel like talking at all.

On the way to school that morning, Malachi had been designated the 'cupcake keeper' for his younger sister, Sarah, who was turning seven. She had been thrilled, her mom making her favorite strawberry batter cupcakes that she wore her favorite pink cardigan with her favorite poufy baby pink dress to match. Upon seeing Will at the bus stop, she demanded that Malachi give Will one of her cupcakes to take with him.

Being the ever-obliging older brother, he complied but not fast enough for his sister's liking. As he tried to wrangle both the plastic Tupperware and its lid in his arms, she reached up on her tip-toes, trying to scoop up one for Will.

"Wait Sarah, let me—"

"No, I got it Malachi!"

"You're pulling on the box!"

Immediately Sarah had let go and in doing so, dumped the entire contents of her birthday treat unto Malachi's shirtfront.

Luckily his chest prevented them from falling all over the ground but at the same time, his sharp-dressed sweater vest was now covered in bright pink frosting and glittery sprinkles. Not to mention the assault on his poor ears from the dismayed wail that seemed much too loud and shrill to come from a girl so tiny and pink.

Will giggled, remembering how stony Malachi's face had been on the entire bus ride to school, still completely covered with the pink confection. On the way back home, Sarah was still angry with Malachi, stating it was entirely his fault that half her friends had smooshed cupcakes and it wasn't fair.

Having completed his journal entry, Will reread it to himself, feeling a deep welling of pride that he had not only written something, but something that he was proud of and made him happy. He allowed himself a small self-indulgent smile before closing his book and tucking it away in his bag.

After refilling his glass of juice and going to the bathroom, Will started to tackle his mini-book report that was due next week. His teacher had read the first chapter of _Wayside Stories_ for the class on Monday and then assigned every student a different chapter to read aloud to the class and do a summative book report on.

Will's chapter was called ‘Sammy’. Each chapter in the book was about a kid in Ms Jewell's class and the weird antics or characteristics of each kid. Will found his character weird, but funny—though if Sammy had been as rude and nasty to his mother as he was to Ms Jewells, Will highly suspected that Sammy would have been in time-out for an eternity.

That is, if the kid didn't turn out to be a rat in the end. A literal rat.

Will gasped at the twist, and found it exceptionally clever. Though if his mother saw that, she would have screamed much louder than Sarah had, grabbed her trusty broom and beat the living daylights out of such a disgusting creature.

Will was halfway through his rough draft when sure and steady footsteps echoed down the hall. He looked up just as the dashing figure of Dr Kearns stroll into the kitchen. Though he was dressed more casually than Will had ever seen him thus far—a pair of dark wash jeans with his usual cream shirtsleeves rolled past his elbows—he was still impeccably dressed, as if he wandered straight of out one of his mother's store catalogs.

"Mm, what have you got there, Will Henry?" He crossed the room and leaned over the table. "May I?"

Will nodded. Then he shrugged. "Sure. It's nothing special though."

 Kearns looked up at that, a brow raised in query.

"It's a book report for school," iterated Will.

Kearns perked up at that, taking Will's paper in both hands. "Oh, jolly good! What sort of literature does your American educational system have you reading? _Sideways Stories from Wayside School_? Is this like an older child’s version of Dr Seuss? Americans do have a strange obsession with wordplay and rhyming."

Will felt a bit embarrassed with Dr Kearns reviewing what, to his child's mind, was a very silly book indeed. After all, doctors probably read real important and serious stuff all the time. Kid's books were probably very dumb and boring to them. But Will had really liked it so he didn't want the man to make fun of what he wrote. He curled in on himself.

"It’s not really that, sir. It's a bunch of stories about some strange kids at school."

"Ohhh. Now that sounds right up my alley, Will Henry. If it is anything like Roald Dahl, why I do believe I will be entertained."

Will perked up. "Is that the guy who did _Mathilda_?"

Kearns’ eyes danced. "So you have heard of our dear Dahl! Perhaps there is hope for American culture yet. So which story in here is yours?"

"Mine?"

"Your favorite."

"Oh. Well, I'm not sure yet. We got assigned our own chapter and we have to summarize it for class. I have to read it Monday. So I don't know about the other stories yet. Though the one I got I like very much. It's funny."

"Well then! You have piqued my interest, little Will. I shall have to read this. Can you put on the kettle for tea?"

Still feeling a bit nervous about the doctor's friend reading something that he had enjoyed, Will went to do as he asked, if only to have something to occupy his hands and thoughts rather than worrying over what the man's reaction would be. He knew for sure that Dr Warthrop would find his book trivial and silly.

It did not take long for Kearns to devour the story, his face unusually serious as if he was reading the doctor's dissertation to the Society versus cheap children’s fiction. By the time Will had finishing preparing Kearns' tea, he had returned the slim novel to Will's spot at the table.

"That was quite the read. I do love a good twist! What did you think about the rat at the end, Will? If it wasn't children's fiction, I'd rather say it was some kind of allegory about men's souls. But even I am not pretentious enough to find symbolism where none is found!" The man chuckled, crossed leg bouncing with his mirth.

Will fiddled with his hands. "I thought it funny. Though it was really gross that Sammy kept smelling more and more bad every time Mrs Jewells kept taking off his coat. And he kept getting nastier too."

Jack laughed openly at that. "Very good, Will! Excellent observation! Some would say that is what happens though when you pull off the layers of humanity though...it _can_ get quite nasty. Have you thought about writing?"

Will perched himself back on his seat, hands clasped dutifully in his lap.

"Not really. I do like it sometimes though. I just don't know what I would write about. I am not that creative."

"Creativity is overrated," dismissed Kearns with a wave of his hand. "True works of art are based on experience. With a bit of embellishment of course. Else it will be as droll as one of Pellinore's somnolent lectures."

Will didn't know what to say to that, so he said nothing.

Kearns sipped his tea then set it on the table. "Have you finished it yet?"

"What? The book?"

"Not that. Your report. Is it finished?"

Will shook his head. "No sir, I still need to work on that."

Kearns gave him a feral smile. "That is what I wanted to hear. Come. Follow me." He got up and left the room, mug in hand.

Scrambling to catch up, Will caught his tall figure disappearing into the front parlor. When Will entered into the brightly lit front room with its curtains pulled back and tied about the double windows, Dr Kearns had his back towards the boy, hands on hips as he surveyed one of the two huge bookshelves that dominated the entire back wall. Nestled between the two Louis Phillipe styled shelves was a small reading nook with a single veiled window and a black leather armchair.

"Mm, I know he has it here. Banishes all the fiction here that isn't to his tastes..." The man hummed, rubbing his thin moustache as he hunted for his book.

"Ah! There's the rascal!" cried Kearns, bouncing on his toes to swipe a slim volume from the top shelf.

Spinning on his heel, Kearns placed himself directly into the armchair situated in the little niche, giving Will the impression of a king returning to his throne. The man leaned back comfortably, crossing one leg over the other. He beckoned Will over to the footstool with a lazy flick of his wrist.

"Here Will, sit there. Warthrop's extensive library contains the 1904 edition of Gogol's short stories. This particular edition contains illustrations, which you simply must see. I find them peculiar myself. Nothing like a good illustration I say!"

"Go…gol?"

"Nikolai Gogol. Marvelous chap. I would have liked to meet him myself if I lived back in the day. How he came up with half his stories is beyond me. Makes one think just how much delusion he must have experienced to have come with such compelling imagery! But then again, he is Russian." Kearns tapped the book against his cheek, grinning. He flipped the small book with his hand, deftly catching it right-side up. Then with a show of great solemnity, he wet his finger and began to turn the pages. "Dostoevsky once stated, “We all come out from Gogol's _Overcoat_ and I, for one, find that notion quite apt. Wouldn't you agree?"

"I-I’m not sure, sir. I’m not sure what you are talking about." Will had to crane his neck to look up at the rakish man relaxing in the ebony cushions. It gave Will the feeling of being quite small.

"Ah! Silly me. That is why I brought you here, have I not? Though it is such a shame you are not familiar with the Russian Greats. I would caution getting to close to them though, little Will! They can be quite dark. And I find that sometimes the dark doesn't quite like to let one go." Kearns grinned toothily over the armrest. Checking his book, he drew back with a theatrical gasp and laughed delightedly.

"We are in luck, Will. This _is_ the edition I was hoping for."

Kearns flipped the book around so Will could look at the bookplate for a short story simply called _The Nose._ Will stared for several moments at the melancholy pen-and-ink drawing, first wondering if what he was seeing was even correct, then wondering what in the world was even going on.

"Does…does that man have a nose for a head?"

Kearns turned the book towards himself, scrutinizing the image has if he was an artistic connoisseur seeing the work for the first time.

"Why yes, it does seem that way, doesn’t it? I guess we'll have to read it to understand it. I think you will find it to your liking, if you enjoyed your child's tale of the rat in the overcoat. A nose is more appealing, yes?"

It was wholly bizarre, but Kearns was right—he _was_ engrossed. "I could see a rat being in a coat...but how would a nose work?"

"Ah Will, but you forgot!” tsked Kearns. “Your rat was a dead one. So logically your deceased vermin makes as much sense as a sentient nose!"

Will couldn't refute him on that, so inched his stool closer to Kearns' side to see a bit better.

"Should we get started then?"

"Started on what, Jack?"

Both Will and Kearns looked up from their book to see Dr Warthrop loitering in the open doorway, hair askew and a fresh coat of stubble adorning his chin and jaw. Without any invitation, he padded over to Kearns' side, leaning over him and turning the book in his friend’s hands to get a better look.

"Gogol? Where'd you get that?"

"Why, I found it in here. Forgotten you had this particular volume?" Kearns smiled pressing the book into Warthrop's hand until he took it for himself, scanning the contents.

Warthrop hummed, stopping occasionally to peruse some page of interest.

"I’ve never understood your fascination with Russian contemporaries, Jack. Much too dark and too much stark despair for my tastes. Or given what page you marked, complete and utter nonsense. _The Nose,_ Jack? Surely you won't addle Will Henry's brain with such ridiculousness."

"Would you rather I chose one of the others? With the lovely theme of 'life is terrible and cold and when we die, life moves on'? Which variation on that theme would you like? I don't think you would have _Poor Liza_ by any chance? Romantic you are, it’d be a cry of shame if you don’t.” At Pellinore's revolted expression, Kearns laughed and held out his hand for his book.

"Now Pellinore, Will was reading the most scintillating book for his school report. I am merely introducing him to global culture. Surely you have no protest to that."

With a huff, Pellinore slapped the leather volume into Kearns' hand. "We still need to wrap up the roundworms, Jack."

"Yes yes," pooh-poohed Kearns. "I haven't forgotten. We do have all weekend. And now that I have this, I plan on reading it."

Pellinore sighed and plopped down on the sofa, legs flying in the air as he arranged himself over all the cushions. Wiggling into the couch, he sighed again and crossed his arms like a petulant child.

"Oh, so you will be joining us then, my dear Pellinore?"

Pellinore harrumphed. "You will not join me otherwise."

"Such an insightful observation."

Pellinore lurched up, snatched a fringed seat pillow at his feet and threw himself back down, pillow behind his head. "Get on with it, Kearns."

"As you wish." Mimicking Pellinore, Kearns wiggled in his seat into a more comfortable position, elbows perched on the Chaucer armchair and one hand firmly holding the book in place.

He cleared his voice and in a vibrant tone began, "On March 25, an unusually strange event occurred in St. Petersburg..."

Unlike Pellinore Warthrop, Jack Kearns had a natural aptitude for theatrical oration. Despite knowing nothing about Russian culture or even being able to grasp some of the linguistics, much less the Russian names, Will was riveted from the get-go. Kearns' articulation was impeccable, rolling over consonants with ease and precision. He punched for emotion by pausing for dramatic effect, especially when the Major discovered that his nose was missing and again when he met it walking about St. Petersburg as a person. Even better, rather than the clipped monotone that droned on and on as Will came to expect from the doctor, Kearns had a nearly flawless Russian accent to which he lent all the characters to the story, making the absurd notion come to life that a nose could be an entire character of its own.

When the story ended, Will felt the habitual schoolboy pull to applaud and clap to Kearns' performance. Will flushed, catching himself just in time to thrust his hands between his legs.

"What did you think, Will Henry? Marvelous, wasn't it?"

Will nodded enthusiastically, forgetting his resolve in an instant. "Yes sir! It was great! I really liked it!"

Kearns snapped the book closed with an actor's beaming smile. "Why, I am not sure if you are praising me or Gogol but I shall take that bit of praise for myself. I did outdo myself! I haven't read a good Gogol in some time, so it was most enjoyable."

"I can see why you thought of it though,” replied Will. “It was kind of like the story of Sammy. But way more strange."

"You should write that in your report then, little assistant-apprentice. If there is one thing teachers enjoy, it’s a well-read student. I guarantee you on that one."

Will thought a bit, wondering how he'd do that. "I’ll try. Can I borrow the book?"

"Here you are," said Kearns rising from his seat and depositing the book into Will's hands. He stretched his arms then let them fall.

"Our dear Pellinore has been quite the avid listener...though I do wonder why." Kearns smirked and softly strode to the doctor's side.

Pellinore had fallen asleep on the couch, though if it was straight-away or deep into Kearns' performance neither of them could tell. He slept on his side, face burrowed into the back of the sofa, arms still crossed as if he fell asleep still pouting about Kearns. Though in his relaxed state his mouth still tipped downwards, it was slightly open. That bit of humanness stole all the harshness from his face, allowing the youthfulness of the doctor's years to show through.

Will looked down at the doctor, arrested once again by the change that always came when he succumbed to his basic needs rather than remaining stubbornly in denial of them.

Will looked up at the doctor's friend by his side, where something indiscernible flickered behind his grey eyes. Like Will's, they remained transfixed upon the man before him.

"Sir? Should we leave him here?"

The veil fell, eyes darkening. "Perhaps. I always do."

Will looked back down at the doctor. "If we wake him up, he'll not want to go to sleep again."

"That is the riddle, is it not?"

Will looked up at Kearns in confusion but the man had already left the room, leaving them alone. The sharp footfalls told Will Kearns had retreated upstairs. Unsure of what else to do, Will found a spare throw draped over the back of Kearns' vacated chair. Careful not to disturb the doctor, Will lay the blanket around him before gently shutting the door.

 

***

 

 


	11. And Once Again, I am Left Alone

"Will Henreeee!"

The small boy tumbled backwards off of the stepstool, nearly colliding with the table behind him. Fortunately, his flailing arms righted himself in time, preventing an accidental adventure to a hospital—or perhaps a one-way ticket to the doctor's examination table.

"Yes sir! I am coming!" shouted Will, running towards the hall.

"No need, Will—OOF!" The doctor collided with the boy in the doorway. He jerked back before righting himself with an indignant huff.

"Sorry, sir!" cried Will. He got back to his feet. "I didn't mean to."

"Of course you didn’t mean to, Will Henry. It was an accident; else I would be attempting to figure out precisely why you decided to crash bodily into my person. What the devil are you running for anyway?"

Abashed, Will played with the jar he had been reaching for in his hand.  "You were calling me, sir."

"There would be no need to run if you came the first time I called," answered Warthrop grumpily. His attentions fell to the jar in the boy's hands. "What is that?"

Will tensed, suddenly remembering the item he held. "Oh. This is some curry you bought before. I just remembered it...I never tried it before." Will fidgeted before holding it out to the doctor. "So I was thinking we could try cooking it? Since Dr Kearns is leaving. He’s the one that told me about it."

"How would he have known I bought curry?" Warthrop asked, puzzled.

"He told me a story about my father and how he tried curry."

"Ah." Warthrop looked at the jar in his hands. "Well, snap to then. This requires preparatory work." He handed back the jar and brushed past Will.

"You don’t need me sir?"

"Mm? No. It can wait," said the doctor gruffly. He continued on his way, grumbling and scratching the back of his head as he disappeared down the basement steps.

Will looked at the jar in his hands. There were instructions on the back but Will wondered if he even had half the ingredients such as olive oil or sirloin. Those seemed too exotic an ingredient for the doctor to even think about, much less consciously stock.

Suddenly, Will perked up as strands of music rose from the basement. For a home that housed nothing but the steady creak of the dilapidated porch out back, the whistling of the eaves and the doctor's assortment of grumbles and shouts, it was a mystifying sound. 

Will crept towards it, his body yearning for something indescribable. It only grew as the melody rearranged itself into something he knew. A song from another time that seemed so far away. Something tugged within, pulling at his insides. Will stood just outside the doorway, jar of curry clasped to his chest as the familiar strains of acoustic guitar and drums allayed his senses.

"Mm, I know I didn’t give him that particular CD.”

Whirling around, Will found Kearns near the sink, drying his hands on a rag. Having come from the garage, he was wearing a pair of faded jeans and an old rock shirt covered with slight stains. It was the most disheveled Will had ever seen him.

Kearns hummed and adjusted his hair in its ribbon. "What do you have there?" he asked, spying the jar Will clutched protectively to his chest.

"Oh! Uh, this is some curry the doctor bought a while ago. Since you told me about that one story with my dad...I wanted to try something like what you guys did. Then I remembered putting this up, so...I went to find it. I thinking of making it tonight. For dinner."  

When Will had started to ramble about his dad, Kearns froze. For some reason, Will felt as if he was being studied thoroughly, though Kearns wasn’t even looking at him, gaze arrested by something beyond the tiny sink window.

His gaze broke, leonine head tossing to the side as if shaking free of something that bound him. Kearns came over to Will and silently held out his hand. Will complied, placing the warmed object in his palm. Rolling over the jar in his hand, Kearns’ grey eyes flicked over the label and narrowed slightly. Then he gave the jar back to Will.  

"Not the best brand, but acceptable. Good choice, Will Henry. I do find I feel like something a bit more reminiscent myself before I head off." Kearns began opening and closing the cabinetry, looking for something. "Be a dear and remove the shrimp from the freezer? I know I saw some in there when you rearranged Warthrop's disgraceful shelving from Bobby Morgan's visit. Most curious though. Warthrop finds the mild variety quite bland."

Kearns thunked a dusty rice-cooker onto the countertop and plugged it in. Then turned his winsome smile towards Will and said, "Perhaps he was thinking of you?"

"You think so?"

Kearns laughed and shrugged. "Pellinore is an eccentric man. I was merely conjecturing. Perhaps he's getting old like your father and his poor tongue have no taste for spice any longer."

At Kearns’ nod, Will scooted his stool over to the counter and began preparing the curry as instructed on the jar with slight help from Kearns, who prepared the rice ( _Basmati rice is a different beast altogether, Will. I will not have your child's ignorance ruining it!)_ The scent of the simple cooking enticed Pellinore from his basement where he joined Kearns at the table, customary teacup at both their elbows.

Like their very first dinner together, the atmosphere was weighty and awkward, hanging over the little table like a gauzy shroud. Neither man spoke, picking at their curries and sipping at their tea here and there. When Will joined them, they took no notice, too wrapped up in their own worlds save for the quick glance at the other.

A glance upwards. Then the fall.

The doctor's long fingers twiddled his spoon, scooting the chunks of rice and meat around on his plate. Kearns ate more than Warthrop, but his appetite wasn’t as robust as usual. Even though Will himself was ravenous, the stifling air bore down on the boy too much like a rock upon his chest until he no longer felt like eating either.

"Have you made all the necessary preparations?" asked Warthrop, pushing aside his plate. He cradled his lukewarm tea in his hands.

Kearns made a low sound in his throat. "For the most part, yes. I had the motorcycle tuned up prior. It should be fine for a month or so without anything more. I just buffed and polished it so as long as your assistant here doesn't get the urge to stick his fingers on it, it’ll be fine.”

"And your rifle?"

"Is staying here. Too conspicuous for this particular case. They will provide me the necessary conceal-and-carry. It wouldn't do for me to stick out more than I already do."

Pellinore frowned and drank his tea. "Where did you store it?"

"In your mother's closet. I hope you don't mind. It fit quite nicely, away from little hands. Safety first, you know." Kearns held his own mug with his fingertips, gently swirling the milky tea.

Pellinore nodded absentmindedly. "Would you prefer one you know well?"

"Whatever do you mean by that?"

Pellinore's eyes shot to Kearns'. "My revolver. Would that suffice?"

Kearns' eyes widened for a beat then resumed their leisurely gaze. "Are you offering it to me?"

"I thought that was apparent."

Kearns’ slowly placed his mug upon the tabletop. "Why, I am honored, Pellinore. Will you be fine then with your father's service pistol? That is a Vietnam era relic; are you sure it’s even functional?"

Pellinore waved his hand dismissively. "I sold it right after you found it. I have no need for that sort of disgraceful heirloom. And I will be fine. You make it seem as though I am the one pitted against rogues and scoundrels. You are the only soul that consistently breaks into my home."

"That’s reassuring,” laughed Kearns.

"Must you always do that, Jack? The rest of humanity knocks."

"Now that isn't fair, Pellinore. I do sometimes. And I did call ahead of time. Not my fault that I've come to expect less than enthused sources of welcome."

The doctor passed his half-full cup to Will with a grunt. "What time is your flight?"

"I need to be there by 11:30."

Pellinore rubbed his jaw. "It will take us about an hour to get to the airport...so 10:30 plus an extra half-an-hour for any potential hazards or obstacles..." Poking his lip, he glanced at the microwave. "That gives us...two hours."

"Two hours until I have to leave or two hours left with me?"

"That’s literally the same exact thing, Jack. Just different verbiage."

Kearns stretched in his chair, long legs brushing against Pellinore's as he slid down in his seat, looking very much like a boyish delinquent with his pulled back hair and scruffy tee. He yawned and snapped his teeth with a smile. "That is the beauty of language, is it not? One would rather have a cottage in the forest rather than a cabin in the woods, though they are essentially the same thing."

"What sort of riddles are you playing at?”

Kearns popped out of this chair, snatching his mug and placing it in the half-full sink. "Nothing at all, my dear Pellinore. Nothing at all. Now if you must excuse me, I am going to wash up and change out of these dreadful clothes."

Warthrop jumped out of his chair as well, with a speed that Will had not thought him capable of.

"Wait."

Jack threw a questioning glance over his shoulder at Warthrop before turning his full attentions on his friend. "Yes?"

Warthrop straightened under his gaze, hands sliding upon the small of his back, one clasped in the other. "I require...that is…" He cleared his throat, Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed. "Have you finished packing? I will retrieve my revolver for you. If you'd like."

"That will be acceptable. I’d like to inspect it as well."

"Of course. I haven’t have need of it for some time."

"I suspected as much. Not much need of a firearm when one is just attending to home-grown parasites. Not like the good old days, mm?"

Pellinore shoot Kearns an exasperated glance but something tugged at the corners of his lips. "Not at all. Though I have still not forgiven you for that knifing in Dresden."

"That wasn't entirely my fault and you know it. I’m not responsible for the creativity of the German nightclub scene. How was I supposed she was armed to the teeth?"

Pellinore chuckled softly and shook his head, taking a small step forward. "James was furious."

Kearns' eyes never left Pellinore, watching his every move with the attentiveness of a wary predator. "When was James not? Ever the loyal assistant."

Pellinore stiffened, mouth drawing downwards. His hands tightened, pulling hard upon the other. "Indeed. He was always there for me."

"He was, wasn't he?" Kearns was smiling, but it did not reach his eyes.

"Yes." Pellinore bowed his head, hands falling to his side. His fingers curled loosely.

Kearns walked up to Pellinore, close enough to look down at his lowered head. Their chests rose and fell with their passing breaths, intermingling in the shared space between them. Kearns' eyes fell closed and he took an audible breath. Pellinore's hands tightened.

"Shall we take a look at your revolver now, Pellinore?" Kearns pulled away, stepping free from Pellinore's presence. He walked around him and paused in the archway. Waiting.

Pellinore only turned partially, back taut and feet sliding across the cold tile as he shifted. His head angled towards Kearns, watching the man as he waited upon the threshold. The doctor's profile was rough and inscrutable as if hewn from stone.

"I keep it in my study. As always."

A soft chuckle. "I’ll meet you there then, my dear Pellinore." Kearns’ footsteps echoed shallowly in the dark and empty hall, before dying altogether.

Pellinore turned around fully, entire body facing towards the opening that swallowed his friend into the night. He took a step, then paused. His arms sought comfort around his middle, fingers twining in the fabric. Then he unfurled himself, arms falling resolutely to his side.

"Will Henry, I will help Dr Kearns before we leave. Ensure you are ready by 9 o'clock," called Dr Warthrop addressing the gloom. Without waiting for an answer he left, lone footsteps scraping desolately against the encroaching silence.

 

***

 

An hour and a half later, all three were bundled into Warthrop's Daytona, Will tucked away in the back behind Warthrop's seat after much bickering of who would be the one with less legroom.

"Move your seat forward, Jack. There is no space for Will Henry in the rear," ordered Warthrop as he leaned over the driver's seat, his freshly combed hair brushing against the grey ceiling.

"Absolutely not. Shall I play towards your sense of logic? I have one inch on you and therefore _you_ will move your seat forward. Not to mention Will Henry is your protégé, not mine." As if to make his point, he shifted in his seat, pushing the lever to angle his seat back as if he was settling in for a long nap. Then he buckled himself in, patted the clasp with a teasing grin and rested his hands contentedly on his belly. He closed his eyes and pretended to be asleep.

"It’s my car," protested Warthrop.

"And so it is. But I’m also your guest." Kearns lolled his head towards his friend, youthful smile upon his lips.

Warthrop muttered something and bowed his head out of the car before shoving his seat a few inches forward. He flipped the switch to fold the driver's seat to allow Will to clamber inside. He had his little backpack with him and carefully placed that in the empty seat behind Kearns. Then he situated himself in his own spot.

Still grumbling up a storm, Warthrop gathered himself into his now entirely unacceptable seat and started their journey to the Memorial Airport in the other half of Norfolk County.

The ride proceeded in silence, Warthrop keeping most of his attention on the road ahead as they left the small hamlet of New Jerusalem. Slowly the century-old townhouses and New England homes gave way to farmhouses and gnarled orchards, bordered by serene grassy banks. The small two-lane highway beat with soft yellow pulses beneath their searching headlamps. Despite it not being that late, the world was deserted, lost to the murk that had gorged itself on the surrounding landscape. Above, the indigo sky cascaded forth with a massive showcasing of stars, each twinkling without the pall of artificial light to obscure their luster.

For Will it was a comforting kind of silence, underlined with the nearly inaudible thrum of the car radio that lay beyond his hearing. He looked out the window, past his own tired face to the lost scenery they cut through.

Before coming to live with the doctor, Will had made this trip several times before.  The nighttime ritual that delivered his father back into the unknown until they were able to retrieve him again, safe and sound. He would return exhausted and careworn with new chapters to his tales, but he always returned home and to their arms once again. _Always._

Will yawned and closed his eyes. He pressed his face against the uncomfortable window ledge, bundled in his oversized hoodie. Snuggling in on himself, he tugged his arms free of the sleeves and wrapped them around his middle before succumbing to sleep.

The car hummed, uncaring.

"Your assistant finally fell asleep," came a soft voice.

"He was bound to. That boy thinks of nothing but sleep and food," replied the other.

A low chuckle filled the small space. "Now that is cruel, Pellinore. I'd wish you take a page out of your young charge's book. I bet as a boy yourself that is all you thought about."

"Don’t be ridiculous. At his age I was shipped off to boarding school. I had my studies to occupy my thoughts."

"Studious even in childhood? How unsurprising."

"And shall I presume you were not?"

Kearns straightened in his seat, leaning his head upon his elbow propped against the door. "Oh, I was a most studious boy. How else were you to be awed by my prowess with exotic flora and fauna? Though I do admit that was entirely my own doing. It wasn't as if my teachers were chomping at the bit to teach us dissection and naturally-occurring poisons.” Kearns leaned towards Pellinore and purred, “I was a very precocious child."

Pellinore flicked his eyes towards his companion. Then back at the road. "I would not refute that claim for one second."

"Come now, Pellinore, is that to say you weren't one yourself?"

Pellinore plucked at this bottom lip, the barest outline of his angular face awash in arrant green. "I had my share of...mistakes, as it were. I have fallen prey to the irregularities of youth and its entire insensible disregard for logical choices. It might not seem it, but I do fall prey to human irrationality if I do not reasonably proceed with due course."

"Such as now?"

Pellinore snapped his head towards Kearns. "What the devil do you mean by that?"

Kearns laughed at his friend's reaction. "The bet, Pellinore. Will Henry feel asleep before ten so you owe me one. Poor lad must've been enervated." Kearns craned his neck to peer over Warthrop's seat before settling back against his seat. "However, your reaction was most curious Pellinore. Why, one would think you assume I was referring to something scandalous."

Pellinore made an ambiguous noise in the back of his throat, saying nothing. He resumed tugging at his lip, lost in thought.

Kearns turned to regard the window, feigning interest in the vanished bucolic landscape. "This is about the conversation earlier, isn't it?"

The road passed beneath them in a steady beat of muted silence.

"Yes," replied Pellinore softly.

The faux leather cracked as Kearns shifted. "It's completely understandable, Pellinore. I've always put work first myself. It is in the best interests of everybody."

"And I agree with you. But Robert still hopes I keep the boy."

"Bobby Morgan? More like Booby Morgan. Does he look like one to you? That button nose and those glasses. Just give him a pair of blue boots and you have a Booby Morgan."

"Jack..."

"He is quite right, you know. Keep the boy, settle down and live the American Dream. With the boy you are pretty much one step away from that achievement. You have the house and now the child. All you would need is a picket fence for that ghastly yard of yours and a dog to complete the picture. Not to mention a spouse.”

"You know that is the last thing on my mind. I almost came close to that once and I do not wish to repeat the experience."

"Then do stop beating yourself over something that you have obviously thought about in your and the boy's best interests. You did tell me your mentor is on the case. Well, him and Booby Morgan. Between the two of them, the boy will find a good home. And it's not like you can't see him if you ever get the itch."

Warthrop threw up the turn signal, pulling onto a four-lane highway. Instantly the stars winked out of existence. Soft thrums of vermillion beat steadily though the pitch instead, spilling languidly from the posted sentinels that lighted the way.

"I am still...quite disappointed that thanks to the boy, I cannot accompany you to Puerto Rico. There is nothing more I can do with the data I currently have in my possession and while the subsequent results from Ms Cooper is a promising route, I wish to investigate this for myself." Warthrop pinched the bridge of his nose. "I was hoping for a more conclusive result before you left, but that has not been possible given the circumstances. If anything comes of my inquiry with Ms Cooper, would you like me to inform you?"

"Of course. You know I wait on bated breath."

Thin fingers brushed the air. "How long will you be gone?"

Kearns glanced at Pellinore from the corners of his eyes, face still regarding the dark road before them. "A month at least. Even if it concludes before then, that's how long my contract is. I highly doubt after paying my fee up front, they’re willing to give me free leave."

Pellinore pulled to a stop. Inundated with crimson beneath the traffic light, he waited to turn. "If you discover a lead, I expect an instant report."

"Of course. I wouldn't dream of forgetting you, Pellinore.”

Pellinore drew his lips between his teeth and maneuvered the vehicle down the two-lane road down to the Memorial Airport. Woods once again flanked on all sides, secluding the pair into unrelenting dark.

Suddenly, the morass of trees cut away to an open airfield. False dabs of blue lined the airstrip and lit the ground in clean-cut constellations. Shards of red and orange peppered the landscape beyond, twinkling at timed intervals.

Pulling into the airport road, Pellinore drove around to the front arrival/drop-off lanes, slowing his speed to match the posted limit. At seeing his destination in sight, Kearns immediately freed himself from his confinement, the seatbelt whipping into its holster.

“What are you doing?” asked Warthrop, throwing a startled glance at Kearns. “I haven’t stopped the car yet.”

“I did notice that. Why haven't you?” His hand remained on the door handle.

“Because I haven’t arrived at the parking facilities.”

Slowly his hand fell from the handle. He laid them on his thighs.

"Ah." His fingers drummed against his knee. "Does that mean you will carry my luggage in for me?"

Pellinore threw a scowl at his friend as he rolled down the window to snatch a parking ticket. "You have only one piece of luggage and one carry-on. Seeing as I am the one paying for parking here, I think not."

"Oh, paying to park! I am indeed one lucky man tonight. Will you walk me to my gate and everything?"

Kearns laughed as Warthrop simply stared at him.

With a huff of exasperation, Pellinore turned off the car and threw open his door, tossing his legs out onto the pavement. He groaned and stretched out his legs, rubbing his sore calves and bending the kinks out of his cramped spine.

Stepping out of his seat, Kearns straightened himself more fluidly, pulling each arm behind his head and giving a sigh of appreciation as his muscles loosened and warmed. He wasn't looking forward to the double flights he had all night but luckily he would be given the day to recuperate. Deft hands swept his button-down into place and he smoothed any stray hairs away from his face, tucking them behind his ear.

On the other side of the car, Warthrop rolled his shoulders, surveying the small airport with a frown, taking note of the handful of vehicles dispersed through the small lot. His shirt hiked up his hip somewhat and with a grumble he tugged it down.

Kearns tore his eyes away and threw open his friend's trunk, removing his military pack. He secured the straps over his shoulders, balancing the heavy burden more comfortably upon his back. Then he removed the small black case that held Warthrop's revolver as well as his small backpack that contained his carry-on items and important documents.

Warthrop's trunk directly opened to the main compartment of the vehicle and over the top of the rear seating, Kearns spied a small sprout of hair. Despite all the thumping of the trunk, the boy had remained fully asleep. Not that Kearns could blame him: throughout the week, he had often stayed up late with homework, cleaning or aiding Pellinore. Kearns pressed the hatchback shut and it secured itself with a click.

He came over to the passenger side, stopping behind his friend as he looked into the backseat with an expression Kearns had not seen on his face for many years. He seemed troubled but resolution etched into the harsh hollows of his sharp face, emanating from his deep-set eyes. His mouth fell open from its tight line then closed again as he swallowed.

“Sometimes he takes seems too much like James. It is understandable due to genetics but sometimes…sometimes it is too uncanny.” He drew back and said nothing more.

The pair stood silently, one at his friend's back and the other head bowed as he watched the shallow fall of the boy's breathing as he continued to doze.

"Should we let him sleep?"

"And not let him give me any sort of goodbye wave? Really, Pellinore. This might be my only chance to have the syrupy cliché of being waved goodbye by a small child."

Pellinore bent over, gripping the back of the driver's seat for leverage. Gently, he shook the boy awake by the shoulder.

Two sleepy eyes struggled. Then like a gunshot, the boy bolted awake, eyes wide. "S-sir!"

Will twisted around in the backseat to register his surroundings.

"We have arrived, Will Henry. Come. We need to take Dr Kearns to his flight. It’ll be leaving within the hour."

Will still seemed only half-asleep, rubbing at his eyes with his long sleeves, but he nodded his understanding and pulled himself out of the snug back seat. Just as Warthrop went to shut the door, the boy suddenly found himself wide-awake, throwing out his arms.

"Wait, sir! I forgot something important!"

Frowning, the doctor held open the door as Will stretched over the back seat and snagged his little backpack. He tossed it on and moved out of the way. Standing next to Kearns, he looked like a miniature version of the man next to him.

Warthrop locked the car and together they walked through the parking lot, picking their way around the variety of sedans and passenger cars before crossing the desolate drop-off lane. Some of the hanging signs creaked above, adding to the thrum of discolored florescence that threw harsh shadows into every corner of the vehicular semi-circle. The automatic doors opened with a jarring _whoosh!_ and bathed the three travelers with a cold blast of stale air that smelled slightly damp.

Without waiting, Kearns made his way to the check-in counter, leaving Will and the doctor to wait idly in the open area. Being an extremely late flight in a tiny airport, only a few stragglers roamed around. The rest with business there had already made their way past the single security checkpoint where a uniformed TSA agent flipped through a _People_ magazine. Stiff conjoined plastic chairs lined the walls and a couple and their small children sat together with several pieces of colorful luggage at their feet. Some business men and women made their way across the floor, their sharp heels clacking against the linoleum.

Will yawned, scrubbing the sleep from his eyes in a desperate attempt to remain awake. He didn't want to fall asleep or appear too tired to wish the doctor's friend a safe farewell. His mother had taught him that: you made sure to wish them a happy goodbye to ensure they would return safely back. Will always did that with his father and despite only knowing for Dr Kearns for a week, he didn't want anything bad to happen to him.

Warthrop however, seemed disproportionally restless to Will's lethargy, shifting his weight every few minutes and picking at his lip or thrusting his fingers into his hair, destroying the effort he had put into it. At the ticket counter, Kearns laughed with the agent and handed over his large pack, stowing the gun case inside. Warthrop threw his arms together, crossing them against his chest.

By the time Kearns returned, single carry-on in tow and tucking his plane ticket into his trouser pocket, the doctor emanated agitation so thick Will felt swamped with it and fidgeted with his bag in response.

"Well, I’m off," said Kearns with a small smile. He reached over and ruffled Will's hair. "We had some interesting experiences, haven't we, little assistant-apprentice?"

Will nodded. "Yes, sir. Thank you for that."

"My, aren't you quite the lad. See? I told you, Pellinore. He is a most excellent assistant. Now I can rest in peace knowing I fulfilled that particular item on my bucket list!" Kearns gave Pellinore a wink. "How about you, my dear Pellinore? Do I get some sort of clichéd goodbye from you too?"

Warthrop snorted. "That is overrated and overwrought. You have asked the wrong person for that, Jack. You know I have no time for such nonsense."

"You're no fun," pouted Kearns. “I could die you know.”

“But you haven’t yet. So I expect to see you upon my doorstep sometime soon.”

Kearns smiled. “So you aren’t concerned by the likely probability of my impending mortality? Can’t say whether or not I am touched by your apparent faith in my skills or your disregard of the danger I shall find myself in.”

As Kearns bent down to retrieve the carry-on he laid at his feet, a shadow grazed against him. He looked up. And there stood Dr Warthrop within arm’s reach.

Kearns straightened back up, leaving his backpack where it was. Warthrop said nothing for a single shared heartbeat, then snapped out his tattered wallet.

“Here.” Pellinore held out a simple plastic card.

Kearns’ eyes fell to it. Slowly he reached out. He took it, fingers brushing Pellinore’s own delicately. A subtle graze of fingertips and the card slid free.

Kearns flipped it over. “An international phone card?”

“Despite Puerto Rico being a United States territory, one still requires international minutes to return and make calls to the mainland. Your cellular device cannot call me from there.”

“Just like old times, Pellinore?”

The man said nothing, dark eyes fathomless as he held Kearns'. Then they fell, catching the movements of Kearns' hands as they stored the calling card into his own wallet, the slim article holding it snug in one of its free slots. Kearns returned it back to his pocket.

“You won’t get into any trouble while I’m gone?” said Kearns quietly.

“I should be telling you that.”

“There aren’t any wild beasts I will be hunting this time, my dear Pellinore. Just men.”

“That is infinitely more dangerous, John.”

“I cannot deny that.”

They stood across from each other, the smallest of spaces between them but for Will, the gulf was greater than the mere physical space that existed. Something threatened to burst free from the man at his side, this doctor that despite all his shouting and snappish remarks, held everything inside with the force and resilience of a well-constructed dam.

Yet even the smallest of cracks can forever be susceptible to breaking apart into an open wound, spilling forth its contents.

Will shuffled forward. "Sir? Dr Kearns?"

Two grey eyes looked down at him, watching him. "Yes, Will?"

The boy wrestled off his backpack and fumbled around inside for something. He found it and tugged it free. A rumbled brown paper sack crackled in his hands as nervousness took hold.

"I-I have something for you. For your trip. Father always complained that airplane food was really bad so I...I made you something. Though I'm not sure it's better. I've never been on a plane before. Umm so—here you go!" Will thrust the plain paper sack into Kearns' unsuspecting hand. His brows rose as he regarded the little bag. He didn't say anything for a few agonizing seconds, leaving Will to wonder if his homemade gift offended the Englishman somehow.

Kearns bent over and gently tucked the gift into his knapsack. Carefully he clasped the flap over it, securing the leather buckles. Then he straightened, giving Will the smallest of smiles.

"Thank you, Will Henry. I daresay that shall make the plane trip more bearable. Your father was right: nothing is more a punishment than being trapped in a flying metal tube with airline food. You wouldn't have perhaps tucked away another one of your childish tales in there as well?"

Will flushed and averted his gaze. He tugged at the hem of his hoodie, pulling it taut and tucking his chin against the collar. "Yes sir," he mumbled embarrassingly. "I mean...not one of the book ones."

Despite Kearns continuing to stare down at the little boy, he refused to elaborate further. Kearns chuckled and strapped on his own backpack.

"I shall look forward to it. Good bye, Will Henry!" He clapped a hand to the boy's shoulder and turned toward his friend for the last time.

Pellinore had not moved, arms hanging limply at his side. Then his dark eyes tilted upwards into Kearns' own.

"John."

"Yes?"

"Will you return?"

Kearns took the barest of steps.  

"I must." His gaze fell. "You do have my rifle and motorbike after all."

Pellinore jolted. His hands flew to his back. He turned his head, looking elsewhere. "Of course. I do expect my revolver as well."

"Hopefully it will be put to good use, my dear Pellinore."

The ambient chatter of the airport staff and the few patrons rose and fell around them in a hush.

"Good bye, John."

The bing of some far-off announcement called, instructing any and all passengers to make their way to their boarding gate.

"Good bye, Pellinore."

Then Dr Kearns left as he came, with a grin and a wink, leaving both the doctor and the boy to the demons that had almost overridden them.

 

***

 

 

 

 


	12. The Reeling

The doctor trudged inside, steps heavy. He flicked on the hallway lights, dousing the little entranceway in tepid hues. The garish light did nothing but cut into the stark flatness of those eyes that buried away his soul.

Will tried to catch his eye with worried glances, but it was too late. Warthrop had vanished; every ounce of him dripping in a scattered trail from the airport. Instead, an empty shell of a man remained, crookedly hanging his coat upon its hook. Without even taking off his shoes, he scaled the stairs, wavering slightly on some steps and leaning heavily on the railing for others.

Will’s heart hammered against the icy casing that tried to take hold of it. Anxiety scoured his throat, racing upwards in hollowed-out breaths. It exploded with the rapid pitter-patter of his tiny heart as it fought hard to escape. His hands slipped on the edges of his borrowed hoodie, too tremulous to even worry the fabric in his hands. Swallowing thickly, Will tried to stay the gagging that wanted to wrest his control away; the tight, tenuous thread that held his entire being from unraveling into a trembling mess.

A sharp click shot through the house like gunfire. Will jumped, forcing himself against the doorjamb, its edges biting into this quaking body. He waited, only his shallow breaths and thundering heart for company.

Gradually Will uncoiled from the safety of the wall. He listened for any sound of life overhead, as the doctor's room was directly above him.

But he heard nothing.

Weary and drained, Will let his mind shut off, allowing his body to take control. Remove shoes. Line them by the door. Climb stairs. Use the bathroom. Wash face. Turn off the lights.

His hand stilled upon the plastic switch. The boy dragged his eyes to the door that lay opposite the void beneath him, with stairs that seemed to stretch infinitely into a pool of shadow. The doctor's door was closed off to him, no expanse of light emerging from the gloom.

Will dropped his hand, fingers weakly snagging the switch off. The entire house was submerged into complete darkness. Despite blinking his eyes rapidly, his eyes refused to adjust. So fumbling around, Will found the tiny ladder to his loft and blindly climbed into the safety of his attic bedroom.

 

***

 

Will fought to keep his eyes open but it was a hopeless battle. Everything blurred into a viscous draught that caused him to nod off until he jerked upright with a silent gasp. His lids felt heavy and no matter how much he rubbed his eyes until dots of lights floated in his vision, they constantly drifted shut.

Mrs Feynman had just made some sort of announcement for the class to prepare for their presentations and Will fixed his eyes to the front of the room, though he was really just staring ahead. He plopped his aching head into his hand, trying to hold it up to look like he was paying attention.

Waving the book for emphasis, she proclaimed that they were going in chapter order. Will sent a furtive prayer of thanks—a bit guiltily since he hadn’t been to church in weeks.  

The first kid started to present his story report to the class and in an effort to keep awake enough to hear his name, Will let his mind drift.

Despite coming home at 2 AM, Will still got up for school instead of staying home. Normally his mother would let him stay home from school if they had to pick up his father really late at night (which Will didn't mind because that also meant he got a whole day with this father). But Dr Warthrop had said nothing of the sort and Will didn't want to stay home and get accused of skipping if the man fully believed he should be at school.

Not to mention today was the day of their presentations. Will was sure his teacher wouldn't be too happy if he missed school and did not have a doctor’s or dentist's note as a valid excuse.

Yet Will felt like throwing up all day, with every step that put him further and further away from Harrington Lane. It started as a headache on his way to the bus stop as he nibbled at a pop tart that he didn't find appetizing. Crumbling tasteless in his mouth, his stomach instantly protested. He gave up, wrapping the pastry back in its foil wrapper. After a while, his throat began to hurt and Will didn't bring anything to drink.

At school, though his stomach was empty, it roiled as if filled with thick poison, providing him with copious amounts of nausea that sent chills and beads of sweat upon his forehead. However, he didn't want to go to the nurse since they would call the doctor to come and pick him up and that was the last thing he wanted to do.

The doctor seemed worse off than he felt, though Will hadn’t seen him after he shut himself away in his room. It was something palpable, as suffocating as a pall twisted tight around his face. Will had awoken to it, clawing and scratching at the invisible mass that hung over his bed, choking frightened sobs from his throat.  

All morning Will felt he was treading through syrup, thoughts constantly racing towards the doctor and becoming trapped in the mire. Should he check on him? Was he ok? Would he be ok if he left him to go to school all day? Will tried to reassure himself that for the past three weeks Warthrop often disappeared for hours on end and always poked his head out, haggard and worse for the wear, but always ok.

But as he walked away, as he rode the bus to school and as he tried to listen to the next kid's story, his mind whispered insidiously in his ear, _"That's what you thought too...with your father. And now he's dead."_

Groaning, Will pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes, quickly swallowing the sudden lump lodged in his throat, burning as if he was choking down acid. No matter how he tried to convince himself the doctor would be ok, that he was ok before Kearns, that he was ok before even _him_ , Will couldn’t stop the chimera that flashed in his mind of the doctor with his father's illness.

The doctor’s thin body wasting away upon a sweat-soaked bed with a single worming light stretching outwards. The dark shadows that hunched over his wasted form and devoured him until he was no more than skin stretched tight across bone, pale straps fed to the fire that stole everything away.

"Will Henry!" came a brusque voice, shattering the nightmare. Will gasped, heart tearing in his chest.

Mrs Feynman narrowed her eyes at him, standing up from her desk with a jangle of her bracelets. "Will, why are you standing up during Sam's report? That’s very rude. You know I expect more from you."

Will looked around at his classmates, who all stared at him with various expressions of confusion. He felt the same—he didn't know why he was standing either.

Ashamed that he got reprimanded for something he didn't even remember doing or even meant to do, Will laid his head on the desk and covered his burning face with his arms. He should have stayed home. At least then he wouldn't be worrying so much or get in trouble.

He did not come out of hiding until his name was called to give his report. Even though he felt proud of incorporating Kearns' tale of _The Nose_ and how it was similar to that of Sammy, his earlier scolding in front of the whole class made him incredibly nervous when all their eyes focused on him again.

So he bungled it up, stammering and tripping over some of his words. He could feel his whole body grow hot in embarrassment. It didn't help when he looked over at Mrs Feynman, who kept frowning as if everything Will just did was completely wrong.

"Will, I would like to see you after class," she stated, abruptly taking up his report. 

Will walked back to his seat, feeling the multitude of eyes trained upon him. His stomach lurched and he felt extremely sick. He lay his head on the desk and wrapped his arms around his middle, desperately willing himself not to throw up in the middle of class. Fortunately, the cool surface of the desk helped settle his stomach and racing pulse. For the rest of the presentations, Will couldn't understand a thing as he concentrated on trying to feel better.

After the presentations finished, Mrs Feynman asked Will to stay behind while she took the rest of the class to keyboarding. At this point Will didn't care because it gave him a few extra minutes to pull himself together. By the time she returned and called him to her desk, Will had a headache along with his upset stomach but he no longer felt like vomiting.

"Will? What’s been the matter?" she asked, situating herself neatly behind her desk and organizing her pens. "You haven't been acting very well today. I've been worried about your grades too. Has your guardian seen your marks?"

Will's face felt hot and he rubbed at his face. "No, ma'am. He's...he's a busy man so he never had a chance to see them yet."

"Mm, that isn't good, Will. If your grades and your behavior continues down the path it seems to be going, we'll need to have a conference to make sure you stay on track. You wouldn't want him to be surprised with your terrible performance would you?"

Will wanted to break down and cry. He didn't want the doctor to see his average work or come in for a bad conference and decide for sure he wasn't worth keeping. That was why he didn't show the doctor his stuff in the first place.

Seeing the stricken look on the boy's face, Mrs Feynman patted her desk. "Don't worry, Will. If you just work a bit harder, you can bring your grades up right? And if you need help, you can always ask me or your classmates. There are a lot of resources for you here."

Mutely, Will nodded. His throat convulsed as he fought to hold back his tears.

"Good. Now that brings up something that needs to be addressed." His teacher slid his report on the desk in front of her, nails dragging against the false wood desk. "Now Will, your presentation wasn't good and I think you can understand why since you kept messing up. But it was a good effort. However, what I called you up here for wasn't that, but this." She spun the paper around so Will could see his work.

Will looked down at it, still unmarred by a teacher's pen. He looked up at her disapproving face, wringing his shirt in his hands. He didn't know what she was wanting him to see or say.

"You haven't read this. So why is it in your paper?"

Startled, Will threw his stricken gaze to his teacher. She frowned.

"I see that you've been trying very hard Will, so that's why I haven't said anything up to this point. But this is completely unacceptable. You shouldn't try and pad your work with material you have no knowledge of. This book isn't even in the high school curriculum. You should stick with the original guidelines I typed out for you."

Her stern disapproval roared in his ears, propelling him forward with a series of breathless stammers. "B-b-but I did!" he cried.

"How? Did you read it yourself or did you hear someone else read it? Listening and reading on your own aren’t the same thing, Will."

Tears rolled down his cheeks. Will couldn't look at his teacher anymore; he felt so stupid and ashamed. He had listened to the doctor's friend and thought he did something very good but in the end, he didn't follow her instructions. Of course she wouldn't have been happy with the extra stuff he added.

"Don't cry, Will. You’re a boy, are you not? Here." She clunked a box of tissues within reach. "Clean yourself up so you can join the rest of your class. We can't have you falling further behind. This is why I wanted to talk to you, you see? So stuff like this wouldn't happen again."

Will blindly reached for a tissue with one hand, while the other wiped his nose and face with his sleeve. But it was fruitless; he kept crying.

"Yes, ma'am," he replied, voice infinitely small.

"Now since you didn't know better, you can rewrite your report properly and turn it in tomorrow."

"Yes, ma'am."

Mrs Feynman got up from her desk chair and walked over to the classroom door. "C'mon now. Let's get back to class."

Sniffling and scrubbing at his eyes, Will tossed his crumbled tissue into the trash, trying to look normal. He walked over to his teacher's side, eyes downcast as she led him out of the empty classroom and back to his classmates' side.

 

***

 

Malachi knew something was wrong as soon as Will came on the bus. He said nothing and sat next to Will, allowing him his space to collect himself. The boy kept sniffling, swiping at his eyes and nose. Malachi gave him a couple of reassuring pats on his leg, unsure if he should try and say anything at all.

Will continued to say nothing but instead leaned against the older boy for comfort and Malachi wrapped his arm about his thin shoulders in an understanding hug. Will sniffled with small hiccups and lent more of his weight onto Malachi, twisting his jacket hem in his hands the entire ride back.

As soon as they descended the bus steps, Will immediately spun towards Malachi and cried into his shirt front. The older boy said nothing and simply held the small child close, letting him cry while he murmured soft reassurances.

"It'll be alright, Will. You'll be ok."

Both of his sisters looked distraught at Will's distress. Lizzy held back, unsure of what to do. Sarah however, immediately clamped her little body around Will's side and rubbed her face into his hoodie, wiping her nose on it.

"It's ok, Will! Don't cry! We'll make it better." She looked up at her brother. "Isn’t that right, Malachi? We'll make it better!"

Malachi gave his sister a small smile as he smoothed out Will's hair. "Yes, Sarah. After all, Will's our friend, right?"

"Right!" piped Sarah, once again shoving her face into Will's mussed jacket.

With a huff, Lizzy came over, frowning. With both of her siblings draped over every inch of Will in comfort, she hugged the one bit of him left—his head. She wrapped one arm around his neck and pulled his head close for a soft head bump before letting him go. "There."

At Will's befuddled gaze from where it buried itself against Malachi's chest, Lizzy crossed her arms and snorted. "What? The rest of you is stuck. So you get a head hug."

Will continued to stare but suddenly hiccupped as he started to laugh through his tears.

"Thank you," he murmured, giving Malachi a full encompassing hug before pulling himself away. It was kind of hard to do because Sarah was still clinging to him like a barnacle. So he gave her a hug too.

"You're welcome, Will!" chirped Sarah, bouncing off of him. "You’re always so nice! So it's sad when you're sad! Don't be sad, Will. I'll beat up anyone that makes you sad." The small girl blew out her cheeks and balled her hands into little fists.

Lizzy laughed at her sister's antics. "Sarah, no one is going to be scared of you. You're much too cute and small."

The younger girl's face fell for all of a second before perking up again. "That's ok! Malachi can beat them up!"

Malachi looked horror-struck. "What? No, I won't! You can't tell Will I go beating up people!"

"What? You're just gonna let Will keep being sad?" asked Sarah. "That’s pretty mean. Don't worry, Will. I'll protect you since Malachi stinks." She stood on her toes and patted his head with a big smile.

"Thank you, you guys," whispered Will, wiping his face clean. "But you don't have to beat up anyone. I just got a bad grade. That's all."

"Oh!" Sarah's eyes grew wide. "That's not good. Lizzy gets bad grades sometimes—"

"Hey! Don't tell Will that!"

Sarah scrunched up her face in confusion. "Why? You do. And it's rude to interrupt, Lizzy," she chided. "Daddy said so."

Lizzy harrumphed, crossing her arms sullenly.

"But Will, here!" Sarah dug into her dress pocket and pulled out a grubby pixie stick, half bent and kind of dirty. "I got this for being good today. My card was on green! So you can have it. It'll make you feel better."

Will took the proffered gift with a shaky smile and tucked the candy into his jacket.

Lizzy walked past Sarah and grabbed her hand. "C'mon Sarah, we gotta get going or we'll miss our show."

"Oh yes! I can't wait! Bye, Will! You feel better, ok?" Sarah grinned, showing off her missing teeth and flailing her hand around.

They walked past Will and Lizzy cuffed him over the head. "Don't let that teacher bug you, Will. Sometimes you just get a bad grade and that's ok." She glared down at her sister, who just smiled in response. "I get them sometimes but I don't let them bug me. I just have to try harder then."

She shrugged. "Take care, Will." Holding Sarah's hand, Lizzy left with the smaller girl skipping and chattering as she yanked her sister's arm every which way in her enthusiasm.

Malachi sighed and scratched his head. "They really do like that show. Though I'm not sure why. Some cartoon about magical princesses or something.”

He paused, then laughed self-depreciatively. “Well, actually I do. It's because its princesses. I just answered my own question. Oops."

Will fiddled with his hoodie. "Malachi? Thank you. I didn't know what to do all day...and I just felt really bad. You helped a lot." His face burned and he turned his head away. "Thank you for being my friend. Even though I cried."

Malachi snagged Will around the shoulders in a comradely hug. "Hey, it's alright to cry, Will! Sometimes we have to, you know? Not good to hold it all inside. I've seen my dad's friends cry at church all the time. It's all good. I'm just glad to see that you're doing a bit better."

Malachi straightened, looking down the path his sisters took. "Well, it seemed they made it home alright." He looked back towards Will. "Would you like me to walk you home?"

"Are you sure?" asked Will. He didn't want the older boy feel like he had to.

"Yep! Sarah and Lizzy made it home just fine and are probably eating all the good snacks right now." Malachi sighed. "They always do. They never leave me any. I get stuck with all the fig newtons." Malachi made a face that issued a small giggle from Will.

"Well, the doctor doesn't buy many snacks. Just all these berry ones," replied Will, leading the way back home. With a few steps Malachi caught up to him.

"Berry ones?"

"Yes. It's all he eats. When I catch him."

Malachi snorted. "You make him sound like some spooky guy that hides in your house. Like Boo Radley." Malachi chuckled to himself.

Will said nothing but continued to trudge past all the manicured lawns towards the unkempt house on the corner.

At Will's silence, Malachi faltered a bit. "Did I say something wrong, Will? I didn't mean to. I'm sorry if I did."

Will shook his head. "No. I was just thinking."

"Ah, ok. If I say anything that makes you upset, tell me? My sisters say I do that sometimes."

They made it to the doctor's house, its forlorn Daytona parked at a crooked angle and a mass grave of flattened pinecones littering behind.

"Thank you, Malachi. You’re very nice to me." Will walked over to his friend and gave him another hug, which Malachi returned fondly.

"No problem. If you need me, you can always say so."

"I will."

"Do you want my house number? In case you need me after school? Maybe you could visit one day too?"

Will's eyes went wide at the suggestion. "You mean it?"

"Sure! Here, let me get some paper or something." Malachi removed one strap off his shoulder to dig around his backpack. He ripped a corner of some old test and using a pen, scribbled his phone number on the slip of paper.

"Here. That's for the house. My parents think those cell phone things are a waste of money. _Why get a phone you can lose when I have a perfectly good phone for my whole family?_ " mimicked Malachi in a deep grumble, scowling and placing his hands on his hips.

Will hid a smile behind his hand.

"Anyways, you can call anytime though you'll probably get my dad. But no calling after eight since that's our bedtime." Malachi looked down for a second, thinking.

"Oh! And not on Wednesday. I have Youth Services at the church on Wednesday after school, so I have that all day."

"Ok. Thank you, Malachi."

"You're welcome, Will. Take care, ok?" Malachi smiled.

"I will."

The small boy hiked up the weedy yard and up the concrete steps to the doctor's house. He turned, only to see his friend still where he left him, waving goodbye and smiling. 

The sight fluttered something in Will's chest. Feeling reassured, he made his way inside, waving to the boy behind him.

 

***

 

When Will entered the dim vestibule, he saw that the end of the hallway was awash in bright light, signaling that someone was there.

Will's heart beat frantically, in equal parts dread and hope. The need to ensure the doctor was alright was so overwhelming, Will almost rushed there. Instead, he forced himself to walk so he wouldn't crash into the doctor again. As he got closer, he nearly sprinted into the kitchen. However, the sight he came to seized him with force of wolf’s jaws, and he scrambled to clutch the doorjamb.

Once again, the table was buried in a deluge of paperwork, used cups and several pens, some of which littered the floor. Thrown over his massive nest of work was Dr Warthrop, head buried in the crux of his folded arms.

Will felt fear surge upwards with white-hot intensity, choking him with the sharp pang of bile.

The scene was too familiar. The down-turned head, haggard features and sunken cheeks. The scrape of exhaustion lining thin features. The limp shroud of clothing covering a body once so robust, now frail and malformed—

_"Why is father at the table like that?"_

_"Shh, Will. Dr...Dr Warthrop brought him back like that and he—he fell asleep there."_

The glace upwards, seeking refuse in another’s secure knowledge that everything will be ok.

_"Why does father keep trying to go back to Dr Warthrop when he’s sick?"_

The stricken gaze of his mother, her eyes shining as she tried to reply but couldn't.

So she ran, leaving Will alone with his father draped over the table, still in his nightclothes. She ran, the echoes of her frantic footfalls pounding away at Will’s terrified conscious, but that was the last time she ever ran away. After that, she had shackled herself to her husband’s side and stayed.

Will quietly stepped towards the doctor. He froze.

The man shifted his head, turning it to the side, rustling some of the papers. Then continued to sleep.

Will wanted to fall into a heap on the floor. The man seemed no different than the other times he had fallen asleep in a place that wasn't his bed.

 _See Will?_ There is nothing to worry about. The doctor is fine. Just tired. He was just upset that his friend had to go, see? Just like how mother was always sad when father had to leave.

Will ran the words in his head but despite the evidence in front of him, they refused to take hold. His heart clenched painfully, squeezing tightly in his chest until Will couldn’t breathe.

Ripping off his backpack, Will ran to the bathroom and fell over the sink, gasping. His mouth was so dry.

Trembling, Will righted himself and turned the spigot. Cupping his hands, he tried to fill them with water but they shook too much. It spilled through his fingers and over his hands. He tried again. Then again. But each time he couldn't get his hands to stay firm.

Will started to openly sob in terror—his body wouldn't do what he wanted.

Panting, he sat atop the toilet seat, hiding his face in his wet hands. He couldn't stop crying, eyes wide-open as the blood pounded menacingly behind them.  Shaking badly, he brought his knees to his chest and held tight, desperate to stop his body's quaking.

_What was wrong with him?_

He thought he was all better after talking with Malachi! And now _this?_ What if the doctor saw him like this? His breathing hitched, resuming in panic-stricken bursts.

He felt so broken. His body kept not listening to him and it petrified the boy to the core. He never had this happen to him before. _What was he to do?_ He clenched his eyes shut, dampening his clothes with every timorous breath and tear.

Gradually, he stopped shaking. His sobs dwindled back to silent tears and dry heaves. But Will stayed where he was, too frightened to move. _What if it happened again?_

So he stayed as still as he could, clutching tightly to his traitorous body. He focused on breathing, on each halting breath that drowned out the sensation of losing control.

A few minutes passed with only the steady drip of the faucet and his own stammering breath for company. When he could no longer feel his heart striking across his veins, Will eased himself off the toilet, legs shaky as they fell dully on the tiled floor.

He stood. Instantly, his whole body trembled.

Hugging his arms to himself, Will comforted his body and willed it to stop. After some minutes, he loosened, feeling slightly weak and exhausted.

He glanced at the sink and his throat constricted. He couldn't do it—he was too afraid.

So with small shuffling steps, Will left the bathroom and made his way back to the kitchen. Warthrop was still asleep. Will watched his chest rise and fall steadily for a few minutes. Then he picked his way quietly around the doctor's mess and his abandoned backpack to the sink.

Unwrapping one arm from his middle, he reached for a clean mug and placed it directly under the faucet. Still doing everything one-handed, he filled his cup. Then he brought it to his lips and drank greedily.

He emptied the cup and drank another until he no longer felt so ill. Placing the cup to the side for later, Will made his way back to his little backpack. Though he wanted to remain next to the doctor's side to assuage his fears, he was also afraid that he might wake up the doctor on accident.

So instead Will dragged his pack against the wall behind the doctor by the hallway. Tugging free his old report and a clean sheet of paper and pencil, Will set to work on redoing his book report, eyes feverishly peeking over his paper every now and then.

The doctor didn’t wake up and continued to sleep peacefully. Slowly Will became calmer, reassured that the man was as he left him.

 

***

 

Will finished his second report and handed it in to his teacher, who smiled and praised him for it doing it properly this time. She did say with a sad smile that she would still have to take off points for it being 'late' but Will couldn't bring himself to care at this point. He was too tired.

The doctor had awoken yesterday with a start, jerking upright and startling Will, who had almost banged his head against the wall. The doctor then turned towards Will with a bewildered scowl and plucking a piece of paper off his face, demanded to know why Will was sitting on the floor.

At Will's answer, the doctor merely grunted and directed Will to join him at the table and resume his transcriptions. The same routine, the same work, the same late hours. It was back to being the exact thing as before. That's what it seemed, but underneath the surface something was...off.

The doctor threw himself into his work with a voracity that bordered on mania, as if he was a starving man thrust headfirst into gorge of ambrosia. Nothing was good enough anymore. Will found himself retyping previous drafts to a more exacting standard. Something burned relentlessly in the doctor's eyes but it wasn't the same fire Will had become accustomed to. Instead of fueling the man's drive it seemed to devour him instead, setting his limbs ablaze into a feverish pitch until Will thought he would collapse at any moment.

Will hadn't wanted to go to school today either, especially after finding the doctor still ensconced at the kitchen table where he had left him before going to bed. The doctor waved off any attempt at asking after his health with an indifferent wave of his hand.

"Yes, Will Henry, I’ll be fine. Must you worry over me as if I’m some child? Now get to school. I’ll be displeased if I have to drive you there myself."

And so Will did. He went through his day, feeling very much like an automaton going through the motions, until he was able to come back home to ensure the doctor was still there waiting for him. Afterwards Will fell back into his role, helping the doctor and trying to do his schoolwork until he was free to collapse into his bed.

Even then, Will hardly got any resemblance of sleep, waking to nightmares that often included his father or the doctor being wrenched into the jaws of monstrous fire that consumed one or both until nothing remained except their shrill cries of help. Then it came for Will, throttling him until he shattered awake, skin burning and sheets damp with his fear.

It wasn't until the week neared its end that any sort of respite was received from this purgatory of fevered work and nightmare-ridden sleep.

A series of sharp raps pounded on the front door, startling the haggard pair from their work-induced stupor at that kitchen table. Wide-eyed, both of them looked at the other from over top their respective piles of work, the doctor with his charts as he plotted data and the boy with his fractions.

When they didn't answer the door for a minute, the knocking resumed, albeit a bit more loudly and persistent. At the incessant knocking, something snapped Warthrop out of his reverie and he hunched back over his work, elbow on table and hand clutching the back of his neck.

"Answer the door, Will Henry," he ordered, scrawling harshly into his notes. Then he twisted in his seat and added, "If it's anyone other than Morgan, tell them I’m not available. If it's Morgan, tell him I don't want to see him at this moment as I am incredibly busy!"

Smoothing out his bunched up hoodie, Will slowly made his way to the front door. Though he was short and couldn't see past the frosted window pane set in the door, the shadow on the other side was also short, with only the head visible as it bobbed in and out of view.

Will's pulse raced. There was only one person he knew at that height. Grabbing the door handle, he wrestled with the lock. Will was tremendously overjoyed that his friend had come to see him. Excitedly, Will threw open the door.

Will instantly wheeled back from the old man that paced the small stoop.

Hearing the loud creak as the door swayed open, the man perked up like a Westland and excitedly shuffled to the open doorway, stubby legs scuffing the porch.

"Oh, _mein Freu_ -" He drew up short upon seeing the little boy in the doorway. Then his face exploded into a gregarious smile.

"Ah! Little William! How good it is to see you! How are you? You seem to be doing well, yes?" Bright blue eyes shone beneath bushy white brows that complimented the bushy white hair that wisped every which way atop his head. The man was stocky and barrel-chested and though very short and very old, he exuded a vivacious energy that twinkled with the intensity of a star.

The man clapped a hand to his forehead. " _Ach!_ Where are my manners?" He laughed at himself. "My name is Dr von Helrung. I was Pellinore's mentor when he was just a lad a bit older than you!"

Will's breathing evened out at that and he nodded, clasping his hands together. "Hello, sir," he greeted politely. "It's nice to meet you."

"Oh, no, that will not do!" the man cried, reaching over and yanking him into his arms, crushing all the air from the boy's lungs with an audible _OOF!_ "It is very nice to finally meet the son of such a good and loyal man. I knew your father very well, _Meister_ Henry!"

He released Will, who took in deep, shuddering breaths from the enthused greeting. When the boy looked up, he found the old man's merriment had given away to sorrow and gravitas. "I'm sorry that your family was taken away from this world much too young. Mary and James! Brave and loyal to the end. A grievous loss to us all, but none so much more than you and _mein Freund_ Pellinore. I wept at the news. I knew how much James meant to him and to have him taken away in such a way—a tragic loss! Your eyes; they are your father's. I see that. You serve him now, yes? You are here for him in his loss as he is for you. I only hope that we can all do your father and mother proud as they smile down upon you from Heaven!"

As if on cue, agitated steps pounded the empty hallway.

"Will Henry, why are you holding extended conversation with the—" Warthrop froze at seeing his old mentor upon the front porch.

" _Mien Freund_! From the look on your face I can see you forgot I was coming!" He shook his thick finger at him chidingly. " _Das geht nicht_!"

Warthrop stiffened. "I wasn't aware of precisely when you were to arrive, _Meister_ Abram."

The man's eyes softened and he looked upon his former pupil with a small smile. "You wouldn’t be caught unaware if you only answered your phone, _mein Freund_.”

Warthrop remained where he was, arms behind his back as if he was a student once again ready to deliver a speech to his teacher, dark eyes trained upon the older man. Then he softened and joined his mentor outside on the stoop.  "It’s good to see you again, Abram."

Tears in his eyes and cheeks aglow, von Helrung delivered the same bone-crunching hug to the doctor, pressing his face against his belly. Much to Will's astonishment, Warthrop returned the gesture, stooping slightly to wrap his lean arms about his mentor's back.

"Oh, _mein lieber Freund_! It's been much too long! You are so very close, yet you do not visit as much as you used to!" cried von Helrung.

They pulled apart and with genuine regard, Pellinore smiled softly.

Suddenly Pellinore jerked, stiffening as another figure tromped up his lawn. Pellinore pulled away, stepping back into the house. His mouth drew into a look of betrayed disgust.

"Pellinore? What is the matter? Pelli—"

Warthrop slammed the door right in his mentor's face.

Flabbergasted, Will’s mouth hung open, eyes huge in his little face. He couldn’t believe it. If he did that to any of his teachers, he was sure his mother would spank him. More than once.

Pellinore marched back towards the kitchen, fists clenched at his sides, stomping the entire way until a loud voice called him back.

"Is that anyway to greet your old teacher, who drove all this way to see you, Pell? C'mon, open the door. We’re your friends!”

Pellinore swerved and rushed back towards the door. Will was sure in his socked feet, he'd collide straight into it if the doctor hadn’t grabbed hold of the door handle to prevent himself from falling.

“Neither of you are my friends! Particularly you, Chanler!”

Some incoherent mumbles could be heard on the other side of the door, which Pellinore locked.

"I heard that! Will you cease talking about me as if I was deaf to your incessant chattering?"

"You are acting very irrationally, Pellinore,” called the younger voice. “We've just come to help and von Helrung did ask for someone to help him out."

"What?" barked the doctor, leaping back from the door as if burned. Immediately he began pacing the small vestibule. “Oh, I see! So is John here to take something else of mine too? Is he not content with everything else he swiped from underneath my nose? How about he take my house too, along with my sanity!” He punctuated each cry with a stab of his hands.

“But _mein Freund_ —“

“No! Do not insult me by feigning ignorance of our mutual past together, Abram. We lived under your roof together if you can recall that!”

There was a hushed silence and then—

“I knew if I said anything you wouldn’t allow it, Pellinore.”

"Of course I wouldn’t allow it! Haven't you heard my protestations throughout the years? Or have they fallen on deaf ears? I do not want to see the abhorrent face of Dr John Chanler any more than necessary!" hissed Warthrop violently. "I have to see him once a year for an entire week and that is more than enough already!"

"But he was your best friend—"

"Abram, please—"

"Shut up, Chanler! You knew there is no love lost between us after everything you have done." He drew up to his full height and addressed the door. "Now leave, if you keep insisting that John remains. Von Helrung, I can forgive for your little indiscretion if John vacates the premises immediately.”

Will was sure his eyes would roll straight out of his head at the doctor's behavior towards his old mentor, who had come all this way to see him. Will was starting to see just a bit of why this man earned his mother’s endless disapproval.  

Deep laughter could be heard from outside and Pellinore grew red with indignation.

"Chanler! Leave! Now!" he snapped.

"Fine," conceded Chanler, sounding off-put. But then his voice hardened. "But you will apologize to Abram first. He came all this way to see you and you’re being fucking rude."

Pellinore thrust his fingers in his hair and paced back towards the kitchen. Upon reaching the threshold, he stopped. He took a deep breath, squaring his shoulders. Then he released it in a forceful stream. His hands unclenched at his sides, fingers spread wide before falling limp.

He turned and strode to the door. "Fine, Chanler."

He unlocked and ripped it open, startling the pair on his lawn. They sprung apart as if caught formulating a coup. Warthrop glared down at the both of them, wrath personified, this tempestuous hair sticking up every which way and completely clad in black, from his trousers to his rumpled button-down.

"Will Henry!" he shouted, causing the boy to stumble to his side.

"Yes, sir?"

"Go outside."

Will looked at him in bewilderment. "What?"

"Outside, Will Henry! Keep Dr Chanler company. I don't care what you do, but make sure to keep him out of trouble!"

Will bolted out of the house at the command and huffed to Dr Chanler's side. Warthrop held the door open to his old teacher, beckoning him in with a scowl and an agitated flick of his wrist. Then with a glare at Chanler, he slammed the door once again.

A sharp click rang across the yard.

"Well...that wasn't entirely unexpected…though if he doesn’t apologize I swear I’m gonna clock him," mumbled Chanler, shoving his hands into his jacket pocket. He shifted on his feet, regarding the house in front of him.

"God, this house is atrocious though. Has Pell even heard of mowing?" He kicked out some weeds with his grubby Converses. Then he shook his head, sandy hair winking in the pale sun. He turned towards Will, bright smile breaking upon his masculine face.

"It seems we’re both banished outside while the grown-ups talk, eh?" He shrugged, his bomber jacket creaking with the movement. "Oh, well. If you didn't pick it up from our dear Pellinore there, I'm John Chanler. Well, Dr John Chanler. But seeing as I'm not really anything of the sort, I really don't care for the title. It's pretty silly to get such things for completing a degree, don't you think?"

Will looked up at the man, much stockier and of a more athletic build than either Dr Warthrop or Dr Kearns. He was a few inches shorter too, as Will didn't have to crane his head as far to look into his twinkling pale blue eyes before nodding.

"Nice to meet you, Mr Chanler. I'm Will Henry."

Chanler removed a hand from his pocket, swiped it on his faded jeans and then held it out to Will. "Oops, sorry there, little Willy. Hand's a bit sweaty; hope you don't mind."

Removing his own hands from his shared hoodie pocket, Will timidly put a hand out and Chanler took it with a grin and pumped it firmly.

"Ah, excellent! You are indeed James' son! Nice firm handshake you got there kid! Haha, this is my secret way to find out if people are trying to trick me." He laughed richly, chiseled face warming with his laughter.

"You get tricked a lot?" asked Will, puzzled.

Chanler looked at Will for a full second before breaking into a much deeper bout of laughter, as if Will just dropped the funniest joke in the world.

"Ahahaha! Goodness, Will," wheezed Chanler, wiping his eyes. Then turning serious, he dropped to one knee and wrapped an arm about Will's shoulders, pulling him close. "Now Will. If there is one thing that I want you to know about the indomitable Dr John Chanler, it's this—" he leaned in conspiratorially "—no one tricks a Chanler. No one!"

He clapped Will on the back, knocking the wind out of him and laughing heartily as he stood up again.

"Oh! What is this?" He stooped back down and picked a thin packet off the ground, twiddling it between his thumb and forefinger. "Jesus! It's a pixie stick! I haven't had one of these in ages! Is this yours, Will?"

Will thrust his hands into his pocket and finding it empty, nodded. "Yes, sir. My friend Sarah gave me that. I forgot I had it."

"Ah! That explains why it's all wrinkled! Here you go." Chanler handed the stick of candy back to Will.

Will looked at it, then back at Chanler. "Do you...do you want some? Since you haven't had any?"

Chanler grinned, exuberant at the boy's offer. "Man, thank you! I wasn't kidding that I haven't had one of these in forever. The wife you see. Says it's nothing but pure sugar, so I hardly get the chance for these. I only get some if someone buys them at work for the kiddos."

He shook out the pixie stick and bent it cleanly in half, before tearing it gently to ensure none of the sugar sprinkled out. He eyed the two pieces and handed Will the one with more.

"There you go, Will. Cheers!" He tipped the sugar back and made a face. Then he coughed.

"Whoo boy, that was more potent than I remember it being. That's pretty sour. What're they putting in these things?" He scrunched his face, eyeing the limp wrapper critically.

Will tasted his shyly, letting the sharp sourness tingle on his tongue. But he smiled into his hoodie at the man's playful antics.

"When you're done with yours, you can just give it here. I'll toss it. So...is there any place to sit on this godforsaken lawn of Pell's?" He scoured the area, then shrugged. "Though if I'm gonna be honest, it doesn't look different from five years ago, so I guess that's progress. It could be much worse."

He frowned, eyeing the doctor’s haphazardly parked Daytona, parked ahead of a red BMW convertible. Picking his way through the dead grass, he came to the car and gave it a thorough walk around, face set in concentration. He rubbed his jaw and nodded to himself as he squatted to inspect the vehicle. He poked its dirty finish and peered inside, tutting all the while.

"Jesus Christ. I leave you alone for a half-a-decade and your poor car is neglected like some mom with a passel of kids and a mini-van. Disgraceful." He turned towards the boy. "Hey, Will. Don't tell me the rest of his house looks like this. I'll have to charge in there and knock some sense into that overpowered brain of his if it's like this in there."

Will looked stricken and shook his head quickly. "No, sir! I help him clean."

"Ah, do you? Wow, Pell is sure damn lucky to have you around, Will. I couldn't imagine living with the guy and I had to for seven years!" He laughed but then turned serious. "Don't worry though. I wouldn't really do that, though God knows he needs it sometimes. I just worry about him sometimes though. I haven't seen him personally for a very long time..." The man sighed and rubbed his short cropped hair.

"Anyways, I guess you get to chill out here with me. Though I do feel like some dog with a kid who's watching me play outside." Chanler snorted and looked down at the boy by his side. "How about it? Wanna play something? You like sports?"

Will threw a glance to the closed front door then back at Chanler. He nodded. "Yes, sir. I play baseball. But I haven't played too much now." Will looked away. "I haven't felt like it."

John smiled at Will and crouched down to his level, hands tucked in both his pockets. "Well, would you care to play with me? I haven't had a good game of catch in ages. It's hard to in a city. And you can't play ball in the house, am I right?" He winked.

Will nodded but then covered his hands with his sleeves. "I don't have any gloves or balls though."

"Ah, that's where you're in luck," replied Chanler, clamping a hand to Will's shoulder. "You see—here, come closer, can't let Pell hear this." He cleared his throat. "You see, I always keep the stuff for a good game of catch with me. _Always."_

Will pulled back. "Really?"

Chanler made an affronted noise. “Of course! You never know when you'll get the chance and I like to be prepared. Here, let's go get them. I'll let you pick first!"

Will couldn't keep the excitement from his body, jogging by Chanler's side as the man walked over to the convertible’s trunk. He carefully unlocked it and lifted it open. Unlike Warthrop's, it was spotless, organized neatly with travel toolkit and several quarts of unopened oil held in a crate. In the back was a limp duffle bag and Chanler yanked it close.

"Here, pick something out. I think I might even have some small ones in there, but I'm not sure," he said, unzipping the top and dragging it to Will so he could see inside. "I usually end up giving those away at work."

Shoving his hand inside, Will plucked out a soft glove that smelled of sweat and leather. Eyes bright, he shoved his little hand in it and immediately rummaged around for a ball. He found an acceptably used and scruffy one and stepped back, a trophy in each hand.

"Perfect! A true baseball fan if I ever saw one! Now let me get mine..." He trailed off, chucking out various gloves and balls until he found the one he wanted, a shiny black one. He put his hand inside and tested its pliability. Satisfied, he made his way to the street.

"Now I know it's the mommy mantra not to play ball in the street, but damn if I'm gonna get yelled at by Sir Grumpy for smacking his house with stray balls. Not to mention those pointy looking bushes. So we'll do it here. Pellinore's house has to be in the most secluded little alcove I’ve ever seen, so there's no way any of us would get run over chasing some ball."

So they started up a small game of catch, Chanler tossing the ball underhanded until he realized that Will had a pretty good arm and could handle longer and higher throws. Will's skill sent the man into a gleeful round of toss and catch and he delighted in Will's abilities.

"Go long, Will! I'm gonna do a fly! Catch it—YES! THERE YOU GO!" he whooped, pumping his arm as if Will scored a home-run before tossing him an overhand.

"You sure gotta arm on you! You ever think about joining a league?"

Will nodded, breathless as he ran after a ball that popped free from his too-large glove.

"Y-yes sir. I-I’m supposed to...join in 6th grade," huffed Will. He tried to swallow, but he was parched. He coughed and suddenly he felt a little dizzy. He stumbled to the curb and sat down.

Seeing Will’s distress, Chanler jogged to Will's side and bent over, hands on his knees. "Hey Will, you alright there?"

Will nodded mutely and took off his glove, wiping his damp hand on his jeans. "I just feel a bit thirsty."

"Gotcha. All that running around got you worked up. Ok, let's see what my baby's got." Dropping his glove next to Will, Chanler went back to his BMW and dug around the trunk. Not finding what he was looking for, he leaned over the backseat and rummaged around before bouncing up back in triumph.

"Here we go, Willy! You're in for a treat! Now first, you aren't sick are you?"

Will thought of his headaches and the dizziness he had, but he figured that was from being tired and the exercise. So he shook his head.

"Ah, good! You see I only have one left, so we'll have to split it. I hope you don't mind." Chanler plopped down on the grass next to Will. He rummaged around in his jacket pockets.

"One what?"

"Oh! This. Here take a look-see. I need to find my keys anyway." He handed over the bottled drink and began digging in earnest.

"Cheerwine?” asked Will skeptically.

"AHA!" exclaimed the man, finding his keys on the ground next to him. He snatched them and immediately popped the cap off with a loud _kerplunk!_ The drink bubbled and fizzed, foaming in the dark glass bottle.

"Here. Take a sip and tell me what you think. Drove that sucker all the way from North Carolina, just for you!" The man threw back his head and laughed, settling his weight on his hands.

Will took the drink and looked at it dubiously. Then he gave it a sniff. Vanilla and cherry burst upon his nose teasingly and excited, Will gave it a tentative sip. Though lukewarm, it was good, the sweetness quenching his thirst. He took a longer sip, just enough to satisfy himself before handing it back.

"So what did you think?"

"It's really good. I've never tried anything like it. I mean I've had some soda but mother hardly let me have it since we can get cavities."

"That's absolutely true! Your mom spoke wisely! Though I suspect too that has to do with the fact that your mom was very good friends with Muriel and Emily. I swear those ladies would abolish anything that is 100% pure sugar. Don't they know they live in America? Everything here is sugar!" Chanler snorted and took a swig of the beverage.

"Who?"

"Oh, that's right. That stuff was all before your parents settled down here to hang out with Pellinore and to raise you. You see, they didn't want to raise you in grimy old New York City. Can't blame them. If I had kids, I'd want them to run around in a nice yard without the _eau de_ trash smell. Muriel's my wife and one of your mom's old friends. They just haven't kept in touch as frequently as they did before." Chanler swirled his bottle, letting the liquid fizz and swoosh inside. "That's the terrible thing about growing up: you get busy and you lose your friends to work. Or you make stupid mistakes and you lose them to that instead."

He frowned then handed the bottle back to Will. "Here, you can have the rest of that. Don't tell Muriel that I drank the other five on the way up here, will you? I was already late to pick up von Helrung so we could see Pell here, so I didn't stop except to fill my car and to empty myself!" Chanler grinned boyishly at his joke.

Will smiled shyly, rolling the bottle between his hands. There were so many questions rolling through his head and though the drink helped somewhat, it still ached as if he just finished a very long and very hard math test. So he settled on the one that intrigued him the most.

"Did you hang out with my father and mother a lot too then?"

"Hmm?" The man glanced across at the boy's earnest face. Then he looked up at the cloud cover, forehead wrinkling as he concentrated. "Well, not recently. To be honest we weren't really close, as we were both very engrossed with...with our own work. But your mother and Muriel chilled out very often. Then your parents had you and moved here, so it was hard for everyone to go and see each other, you know? Even Pell here, bachelor that he is, hardly comes to see his dear old mentor! And that's only a weekend trip by train or car.”

Chanler rubbed his chin. “Now the last time I saw your father was five years ago here. Though it was just a couple of hours or so. I didn't stay too long." Chanler chuckled sadly, rubbing his hair, spiking the short strands. "You see, even then Pell and I were pretty strained. I was really hoping given the circumstances he'd forget all of that for a little while. So much for that. But at least he's alive and kicking." He sighed and lay back on the grass, arms behind his head.

Will thought back to Dr Kearns and how despite him not ever doing what the doctor asked, disappearing when he wished and teasing the doctor to the point where he got slapped, Warthrop still desired his company. He couldn't imagine what this man could have done to raise such vehement anger that had him slamming doors in his mentor's face. But Will thought it rude to ask and just fiddled with the bottle, sipping it distractedly.

"Your mind speaks very loudly, Willy," teased Chanler, turning his smiling face towards Will's startled one. "You can ask, you know. I wouldn't have brought it up if I didn't want to talk about it. Your scrunched up face says it all. Anyways, Pellinore always begs questions about him wherever he goes. So ask away." He closed his eyes and settled back into the grass.

No longer dizzy or thirsty, Will set the nearly empty bottle on the sidewalk behind him. He plucked at some grass, still unsure if he was being nosy or rude. However, he decided to ask anyway since the man said it was ok. 

"Why was the doctor so mad at you being here?"

Chanler snorted. "Honestly I thought it kinda heart-warming. Like the good-old days again. Nothing like Pell getting his panties in a twist. I'm just glad he actually had a reaction to me this time rather than pretending I don't exist. Now that's pretty painful."

Will tugged some grass. He understood exactly what Chanler meant. It was a strange kind of pain, one that didn't require the other to do anything at all, yet that was what caused it. The sheer act of doing nothing at all.

"But I guess what it boils down to was I made a mistake. A huge mistake. I still think about it sometimes. It makes me angry, and then it makes me sad. Finish that off with a dash of hindsight and there you go: instant adult regret. I know at the time there wasn't anything I could do differently, but that doesn't change what happened.

"Anyway, it was a big dumb mistake and now Pellinore acts like that or ignores me but that's his choice. I can't change it. Though I do hope that one day we can be friends again. I did have fun with him before I made that stupid phone call."

He tch'd and rolled into a sitting position. "C'mon, I don't want to dump all my woes on you. You’ve got enough crap already. I'm starving. Let's get some grub. And maybe that'll convince Pell to let me inside. You know what they say, the way to a man's heart is his stomach!"

Chanler brushed himself free of grass and then helped Will do the same. "Can't have you littering my car with all that nonsense!"

Snagging up their baseball equipment, Chanler replaced them all back into his bag and gently shut the trunk. Then walking over to the passenger side, he opened the door for Will. He helped the small boy into the back and double-checked his seatbelt, tugging on the strap to make sure it held fast.

"You're much too tiny to hang out in the front with me, but hey! You get the whole back to yourself and you should still get a nice breeze back there! First time riding in a convertible?"

At Will's bright-eyed nod, Chanler laughed and hopped into his own seat, buckling in.

"Well, then you are in for a treat! I hope you like _The Cars_ , because that is what we ended on. So hold onto your seat, Will. We’re off!" The man laughed playfully, all his problems seeming to fly away with the rumble of his engine and once again, Will felt light-hearted and joined with his own quiet smile.

 

***


	13. It is What Binds Me

Von Helrung watched as Warthrop flung the door shut with a snarl before locking it. Then without missing a beat, he brushed past his old master and made his way to the kitchen without a second glance. The snap of cabinetry doors, along with the clink of ceramic, rang down the hall in clipped bursts. Sighing, von Helrung went to join his former pupil.  

Warthrop was braced against the kitchen counter, shoulders and arms taut and head bowed as he watched the microwave boil his water. At hearing his teacher's arrival, Warthrop hunched his shoulders over his ears protectively. Then he shuddered, body wilting as he shifted on his feet.

The microwave dinged and Warthrop made the tea, dumping a spoonful of sugar in the hot water and plunking in a teabag, thin fingers tugging the bag to and fro to brew the beverage faster. He tensed. Then he turned to address his mentor, who was busying himself with poring over Warthrop's work.

"Abram."

His old master looked up with a small smile and graciously took the mug of tea. " _Danke, mein_ Pellinore."

Pellinore's eyes fell and he gave the barest of nods. Then he returned back to the microwave, preparing himself a mug.

Von Helrung cradled the tea in his hands, skimming over the spiral notebook that contained Will's math homework. Then walking around the table, he examined the various scattered papers that bespoke of his pupil's diligence for the past month: tables and charts, scribbled and re-scribbled handwritten conjectures, some slashed through with a heavy hand and jumbled notes perched in the margins at various angles.

Spying something unfamiliar, von Helrung picked up a passel of papers in his pudgy hands, flipping through the rough diagrams and hastily written notes, some of which were marred with stains.

"What is this, Pellinore? This isn't your _Naegleria fowleri._ Have you come across another one of your _Glück Funde, ja_? It looks like a common roundworm. Some interesting variation? I know you _mein Freund_ ; you would not waste your time on such an amateur's game." The man smiled warmly, eyes twinkling.

At his master's query Warthrop came over, cup in one hand as he glanced over the papers in von Helrung's grasp. He nodded.

"Yes. I required that most extraordinary find a fortnight ago from a friend. He did the inquest first and finding them most peculiar, delivered them to me, understanding at once my expertise and resources were the key to unraveling this discovery. Desultory it may be to my concurrent research with James, it was of utmost importance to attend to as the specimens were quite fresh and completely intact in the environment they were found in. I am quite lucky."

"Indeed! You have the best connections, _ja_? Now who is this man who brings you such specimens? It had to be most difficult to obtain intact roundworms. And to carry them to you? Who is he? A fellow from our connections with Duke? I know they have just acquired a virulent strain of fungi that cannot be cured with the standard procedure. They are always quite fortuitous with their acquisitions."

Pellinore shook his head and placed another document in his master's hand to peruse. "It was my old acquaintance, Dr Kearns."

Von Helrung looked up at that. "Dr Kearns? You mean the man responsible for Dresden?"

Warthrop pinched in-between his eyes. "I do wish people would forget that particular incident. It is not one of the better expeditions and you all should remember those with the same fondness you remember that one."

"Ah, _mein Freund_ , but how could I not?" Von Helrung chuckled with remembered mirth. “Young James running towards me at Kennedy Airport filled with fire! Here I think, ‘Ach! James has surely missed us in his absence!' And as I hold out my arms in welcome I am sorely mistaken! You, with your crossness and James, pulling up his shirt to reveal his scarred belly for all to see! So agitated he didn't realize! But really Pellinore—you cannot expect me to forget such a sight!"

Warthrop sighed and placed his mug in his empty seat. "James never forgave Kearns for allowing that to happen."

"I think not! To imagine! You or James catching that wretch's full blade! I just thanked the stars above that it was not infected or worse! Though I would like it if you kept me updated, Pellinore. I do worry and pray for you often. Especially when you are out on your ventures. Only Jacob seems to encounter more dangers than you, but I can forgive him for that. I have never met a man who seeks it more purposely. But you, Pellinore! It seems to follow you with such persistence. Well, you and Solowit." The old man shrugged. "But I forgive her for that too; you cannot work with money and not have trouble. God bless her soul for her diligence!"

The doctor nodded absentmindedly, tucking his chin against his shirtfront. He skimmed over several documents before handing a few choice ones to the increasing pile in his mentor’s hands.

"Here. These all contain the general synopsis of what I have discovered thus far. They seem to have developed a genetic mutation of sorts that allow the worms to retain their keratin layer through all their stages from egg to larvae to adult. They were discovered in the stomach of a small child recently emigrated from Puerto Rico. I’m not quite sure how or why they have that adaptation but I have prepared several slides and preserved samples as wells as a second transcription of my findings that I wish for you to take to Ms Aisley Cooper in SoHo. I have already written to her that you will be the one taking them and to expect you within the fortnight."

Von Helrung's eyes sparkled with pride and enthusiasm. "Ah! What a momentous find if this proves to be more than an isolated mutation! A keratin layer that allows a creature to repel the strongest of acids! Imagine the possibilities!"

The old man began flipping avidly through Warthrop's papers, scanning each with a critical eye. "Pellinore, your handwriting is still the Herculean task to my old eyes. But who is this that wrote these?" He pointed a stubby finger at some neat paragraphs.

"That would be Will Henry, _Meister_ Abram."

"Will Henry? Our little Will?" exclaimed the older man, staring back at the papers in wonder. “Ah, he is indeed his father's son! This brings joy to my heart, Pellinore! Seeing his dedication to your side reminds me of when you first came to me, all alone yourself." Von Helrung turned towards his pupil, only to find him lost to his thoughts, staring at the copious amount of paperwork.

"How is our Will? He is doing well, _ja_?"

The doctor blinked. “It would be best to ask him,” he stated.

“Of course. But I wanted to hear from you.”

Warthrop lightly touched a corner of the boy’s writing, tracing over the print with his thin fingers as if memorizing every stroke written there. Clutching a corner of the half-hidden paper, he tugged it close. Then he drew back, wrapping his arm about his middle and frowned.

“Mm. Well, he is no James Henry but that is to be expected; it has only been a month. He is assiduous, if nothing else. I was hoping he would follow in his father’s footsteps as my assistant; perhaps study in the field of Monstrumology as well. But he has no drive towards the subject, von Helrung. He became ill upon examination of the roundworms and those were not alive. I fear his reaction towards a more animated victim with living specimens would not be satisfactory or conducive.”

He glanced towards his old master who stared back at him, gaze inscrutable. Warthrop raised a brow in query. “What is it? You look as though I just spoke gibberish rather than English.”

The older man waved distractedly. “It is nothing. I was just thinking about what you said. So Will has taken his father’s mantle then, yes? How about the rest of his schooling?”

“What? Oh. Yes. Well, he goes to school.”

Von Helrung waited for some elaboration but receiving none, leaned in closer. “Yes? And? Is he doing well?”

Warthrop hesitated for a beat. “He said he’s doing well in keyboarding.”

“Keyboarding! Well, that is good. That particular skill is needed especially with you as his mentor! Our Will is well on his way then. In whatever he chooses to do, _ja_?”

“Mentor?” Warthrop sounded puzzled. 

“Well, yes. That is who you are currently. Did you not think of it like that, Pellinore? After all, it is what I did for you; provided a home and the tutelage of my profession. At least unlike I, you do not have to defend William against the demons that threaten to break down your door so early in the morning!”

The older man chuckled but stepped closer, laying a hand on his pupil’s arm. Expression grave, he continued, “But _mein Freund_ , not all demons are physical and you know this. You must protect him from those that come when we are at our most vulnerable. Please take care to remember that, you who has fought more than your share of the self-same monsters that lurk beneath our skin and take refuge in our minds!”

Warthrop pulled back. “Do you not think I know that, von Helrung?” he hissed, nebulous eyes flitting with emotion.

“I do think you do, Pellinore. But sometimes we forget those around us, yes?”

Pellinore’s eyes never left his master’s, roving back and forth over the old man’s kind face, wreathed in understanding. They fell, his dark lashes lying frail against his paper-thin cheeks.

“Without that fire that always burns so dangerous within you, _mein Freund_ , it is not hard to see. He has the same eyes as you.”

Those eyes tore back to sapphire blue, startled.

“It has hurt you both. You lost a dear friend and Will, his family. That is something that cannot be remedied so quickly. No matter how hard we push ourselves or bury our heads in the sand. Give yourself and Will some time.”

Warthrop scowled, looking away. His arms squeezed tightly around his middle, hands clenched tight about the fabric until they twisted like a noose around his colorless fingers. Tearing loose an instant later, they fell lifelessly to his sides. His thin chest rose as he took a breath and released it through his nose in a rush.

“I am going to check on Will Henry.”

Without waiting for a reply, Warthrop strode out of the kitchen to the front door. Von Helrung carefully returned the pair’s work to the table and shuffled to catch up to the doctor’s longer stride.

Warthrop quickly unlocked the door and swung it open.

Suddenly, his whole body stiffened as if frozen to the spot. The hand upon the doorknob spasmed, twisting harshly until bone strained against flesh. He shook, muscles bunching beneath his clothes. Then Warthrop hurled himself into the glaring void, shattering the enveloping silence with a piercing yell.  

“Will Henreeee!”

At the doctor’s cry, driven with equal parts fear and outrage, Von Helrung propelled himself to the threshold. He grabbed hold of the doorjamb, lest he trip over the step and hurtle off the stoop.

“What is the matter, Pellinore?”

“He took Will Henry!” bellowed Warthrop. “How are you to explain that, von Helrung? He took my assistant!”

He shouted obscenities to the empty space, slowly devolving into a bestial howl. Shrouds of grey fell upon the infinitesimal plight of this lone man, adrift in his own internal sea. He shook his fists, hair streaming madly in his struggle.

Von Helrung came quietly. He stood by Warthrop’s quaking form in silent companionship while the other man ranted and raved his upset, stomping through his dead lawn in his socks until they became damp and soiled.  Stumbling to a standstill at his mentor’s side, Pellinore had run out of words, nostrils flaring as he dragged in short breaths.

“Now, Pellinore. I’m still here,” tried von Helrung. “He wouldn’t have run off without me, I would sincerely hope. Here, come. I think John just took little Will out for a ride.”

At Warthrop’s vicious glare, von Helrung merely shrugged. “You know how he is with his cars.”

Warthrop burned, eyes snapping at the empty spot where Chanler’s car should have been. “Do not tell me that is why he is here, Abram,” he whispered vehemently.

“What?” The older man furrowed his brows, not understanding.

“John. Is he here because he is the one that wishes to adopt Will Henry?” He whirled, eyes wild and beseeching. “Is it?”

Von Helrung looked at his stricken pupil before lowering his eyes. Warthrop’s heart stammered, seizing in his chest. Then Von Helrung shook his head.

“No, Pellinore. Though I admit he was the first I contacted on his matter. You know how close Mary and Muriel were, so I figured—”

“You would have let her have James’ son?” interrupted Warthrop with a strangled cry. “On that account alone, Von Helrung?”

“Now do not say it like that, Pellinore. You know it was done in the interests of the child. I considered Muriel, yes. But her work calls to her and she cannot.”

That single statement punctured all animation from the young man, body slumping slightly and fingers scraping against the air as they fell.

“Remarkable how one can conveniently change one’s mindset when it suits them best,” muttered Pellinore sourly. “I do not remember her being so…progressively-minded before.”

Von Helrung became agitated. “Oh, Pellinore! Must you be so bitter? They have everyone’s best interests in mind. And John! John, he misses you. He regrets that it had to turn out so! But even after that you remained tentative friends. I heard from John about your father with the Candiru expedition. What happened, Pellinore, which leaves you distrusting him so? You know John as well as I. His heart is in the right place but perhaps not always in the right circumstance.”

Pellinore looked away, figure stiff and unrelenting. His hair swept from his forehead as he stared ahead at the vacant road as if the storm contained in his chest had broken free and now swirled about him.

He turned.

“John was my best friend, _Meister_ Abram,” he replied, tone flat and dead. “And there is no one I hate more.”

Von Helrung shook his head ruefully. “ _Mein Gott_ , Pellinore. My brightest and most talented pupil—yet sometimes you are so stubborn! Holding onto old grudges and pain when you can heal rather. _Ach_!” The older man patted his vest front distractedly, removing a thin cigar and embossed brass lighter. He flicked the lid and with several quick flicks, lit his cigar before placing it in his mouth. He drew a deep breath then released it in a suffering sigh.

Pellinore remained stone-still, as resolute as a _shisa_ guarding his home, his teeth grit to hold in its demons. Then with a shake of his head he began pacing the lawn, obsessively checking his wristwatch. Von Helrung continued to puff away at his cigar, tapping the ash free with a flick of his wrist. Every once in a while Pellinore would pause, stoic face turned towards the empty path veering away from him.

Von Helrung had flicked his second cigar into the bushes surrounding the house when the tell-tale rumble of an approaching vehicle yanked both men from inertia’s hold. Emerging from the tree-line, the 1987 convertible slowed, rumbling as it turned into the driveway. As soon as Chanler pulled into stop, Warthrop was instantly upon him, bearing down on the man like an incensed parent.

“Chanler! Return Will Henry at once or I swear—“

“Shh! Pell! Be quiet, will you?”

 “I will not! How dare you leave without any noti—“

“No, you dumbass! Will’s asleep!”

Warthrop shot up at that and swung his gaze to the back seat. Chanler grumbled under his breath and set the car into park before cutting off the engine.

The boy was indeed fast asleep, seat belt tucked under his chin as his head rested against the leather upholstery. Held tight in his small hands was a small drink, bracketed by his legs for extra stability. Pressed against his side was a small paper take-out bag.

Catching Warthrop’s absorbed expression towards the boy, Chanler clutched the back of his headrest and twisted in his seat to address his friend.

“Poor sap fell asleep as soon as we left the joint. Though damn, that boy’s one dedicated cookie. I told him not to spill a drop on my fresh seats and look at him! Sticking to his promise like a Henry! His parents had to be very proud of their son.” He eyed Warthrop discreetly from behind his wayfarers but the man made no comment. Nor did he react to what he even said. His gaze remained locked on the small boy, as if no other existed in the moment save them.

Then as if he sensed Chanler’s curious gaze, two eyes snapped to his despite being hidden behind the protection of his shades. It was uncanny how they arrested him instantly, leaving Chanler feeling as though he was prey trapped beneath those glittering black orbs.

The doctor broke away, regarding the boy once again. His lips seemed to move of their own accord, saying something nearly inaudible as if only for himself to hear. Then he squared his shoulders, eyes briefly cast upwards to the unseeing grey sky before casting back down to Chanler.

“We need to wake him if we are to go inside.”

Chanler made a face. “I’m not waking Will, Pellinore. Look at him!” He gestured into the back seat. “Poor kid’s exhausted! I brought food; we’ll just eat out here.”

“Like a bunch of savages? Glad to see you remain the same as ever, John.”

“And eating in the woods is any different? Jesus, Pell. You have a funny set of standards.” John snorted, putting away his glasses in the glovebox.

“A civilized sense of standards,” retorted Pellinore. “On expeditions it’s not as if I have access to anything other than tents and campfires. Last time I checked, I happen to have a perfectly good dining table for eating at even if it’s…” Warthrop leaned over the side of the car to catch a glimpse of the paper bag. Then he scrunched his face.

“50’s diner food? Really, Chanler? You haven’t out-grown your childish appetite? No wonder my assistant blindly followed you; you both are one and the same.”

Chanler made a shooing motion at the surly man so he could open his door. “Oh believe me, Pell. If there was a Bojangles ‘round here, you’d be having that instead.”

The doctor’s face twisted in revulsion. “If you bring one of their loathsome biscuits passing off as overly sugared scones anywhere near me again, your car will soon rival Dante’s third circle of hell.”

“Well, you missed out on that party then. Just came back from North Carolina. If I’d known you missed those southern-style scones that much, I would’ve bought you a box.” Chanler grinned as Warthrop slapped his door in frustration before whirling away with a huff.

“What did you get? I like to know my poison beforehand before I decide to riddle my body with such impurities.”

“Ah, the standard. I didn’t think your taste in food changed too drastically over the years. Unless you started to like outlandish things like curry wurst—no offense von Helrung,” added Chanler as the older man shuffled to the pair.

Von Helrung just laughed in response as he beheld his two former students: one with a tentative smile and dancing eyes and the other morose and frowning, but not full of the same outrage that had plagued him moments prior.

“None taken, _mein Freund_. I know how you are with your stomach! I cannot say I find your own tastes to my liking either so we are one, yes? You drown yours much too liberally, John. It is like there is no wurst in there at all!” Abram playfully shoved Chanler in the arm and laughing, John bumped against him in retaliation.

“None of that, Abram! You’re in America! You gotta have the Chicago dog. Or at the very least be a true New Yorker and get a classic dog! But I did get your favorite; it’s why I hunted down this place in particular.”

“Ah, bless you John!” replied Von Helrung happily as the young man placed a bag in his hands.

“Now Pell, is there any sort of outdoor seating around here?”

When he received no response, John turned only to find Warthrop rummaging through the other bag, having swiped it from his seat. He mumbled something to Von Helrung, who chuckled in response.

Snorting to himself, John decided to take matters into his own hands, knowing if he waited for Pell, they’d all be sitting on the ground like a bunch of schoolchildren at recess.

Shoving his hands into his pockets, John wandered over to the garage, figuring if Pellinore had any sort of outdoor chairs or stools or anything, the garage would be the first place to look. A dusty film layered the door and he swept away several cobwebs with his forearm. Pressing his face against the narrow garage window, John cupped his hands around his face to peer inside the dark. His breath congealed upon the dirty glass and he wiped it away, before squinting once more. He searched the gloom for any sign of chairs or suitable seating material.

Suddenly he pulled back, eyes widening. He cast a glance over his shoulder at his friend, who remained pilfering fries from the bag while his mentor chatted amicably. Then considered the garage again.

“Chanler! What are you doing?” snapped Warthrop, eyeing John over the paper bag. The effect was lost on Chanler, who smirked as Pellinore popped several fries into his mouth at once.

“It doesn’t seem you have any lawn chairs, Pell,” stated John.

“Of course I don’t. Why would I have need of such things?”

“Why indeed. I forgot you hate fun.”

“Only your type of fun, John.”

“Which is every kind of fun.”

“I do not find you sticking whipped cream in my hand as I slept or hiding all my undergarments _fun_. You were and always will be a menace.”

John laughed before shrugging his shoulders. “Better that than boring, Pell.”

“One can be engaging without resorting to being a fool.”

“You got me there! But you have to admit, Pell. We’re each pretty guilty of both.”

Pellinore’s face soured as if he just spewed something rank and Chanler laughed again, fulfilling something that had remained shattered and in ruins within his heart. With each laugh, the shards overturned and winked with a twinkling shine, once again becoming something beautiful despite having been broken all those years ago.

“I’ll just have to use my amazing skills to craft ourselves some impromptu seating then. Just hold onto your britches and we’ll be eating in no time. Though it’s not as if you started without us anyway.”

Walking to the back of his car, John unlocked his trunk and emptied the crate inside, placing the jugs of oil to the side. Then snagging the toolbox and the plastic crate, he returned to Warthrop’s Daytona where he placed then on the ground in an improvised seating area.

“You get first dibs, Pell. Though open your driver door first and let Abram have that.”

Sighing, Warthrop pulled open the Daytona’s door for their mentor. Then he perched himself on the overly inadequate seating, folding his long limbs over the toolbox like some gangly bird. Then digging in the bag at his side, he removed the fry carton and resumed eating the rest. Sitting opposite on the crate, John reached over to the bag at Warthrop’s feet and placed it in his lap, rifling inside only to find an empty carton along with the three sandwiches he bought.

“Hey! You can’t just eat all the fries!” protested Chanler, looking up in dismay. “Give me some, Pell! I bought you a burger to go with those!”

Warthrop paused mid-chew and looked at the nearly empty container in his hands. Then he finished, swallowing his bite with a huff. He plucked a few choice pieces from the carton before reaching over and handing it to Chanler. With a satisfied crunch, Warthrop popped the rest into his mouth.  

Chanler eyed the remains of his fries critically, noting the ones that were left were all forlorn and limp and smooshed at the bottom. He shook his head before passing over the bag of burgers to Pell.

“Last time I ever hand you anything before I get a go, Pell. There’s only the soggy ones left,” he grumped. “Did you even offer any to Abram?”

Pellinore threw an offended look at John before taking a bite of his burger. “Of course, John. If you were around instead of poking about my garage like a nosy old lady, we would have known you desired some of the French fries.”

Von Helrung snorted, covering his mouth with a napkin.

“I bought the damn things—of course I wanted some! Next time I’ll be more explicit about it. Who would’ve know you inhale fries with the same veracity a toddler with candy.”

“Do you mean yourself? I’ve seen how you swipe from the candy bowl at the Society’s Halloween gathering.”

“Oh Jesus, you noticed that? Candy’s damn expensive, man. If they pay for it and leave it out, of course I’m taking some. I’ve only learned from the best.” John winked and grinned broadly at Pellinore, who narrowed his eyes.

“I do not know what you are attempting to assume about me,” he said.

“Don’t play coy. You definitely tax the poor chefs at Delmonico’s every year.”

Pellinore balled his wrapper and placed it in the take-out bag. “I eat the precise amount a human body is required to consume, John. It just happens that everyone else decides to dance, get drunk and fight, instead of partaking in their palatable fare. Being an eminent scientist in the field of Monstrumology, I refuse to degrade myself to the level of their buffoonery. At least Dr Solowit and I agree on that particular stance.”

John bit into his second sandwich. “Oh man, do you remember what she did to Jacob last year?”

“Which part? Where she swept his leg out from under him and he collapsed against the buffet table or when she locked him in the bathroom until he promised to pay the total for the entire wreck?”

“She wrangled that outta him?” asked John in disbelief. “Well, shit! I didn’t know that. That woman is a beast. No one can stop Jacob once his blood gets going for a good tousle but to also make him pay for starting it?” John let out an appreciative whistle. “I need to shake that woman’s hand and make sure I steer clear of making her mad.”

“I would not recommend you ask her for any sort of financial backing then.”

John’s eyes grew wide before he burst into laughter. “Don’t tell me you made that amateur mistake, Pell! For fuck’s sake, even I know not to go down that perilous route! One look into our financial histories and I’d be thanking my lucky stars all I get is a glare and a boot from her office.”

“Fine. I won’t tell you then.”

“Haha, that bad, eh? But I gotta admit the Society’s been doing well because of it, instead of all those wild goose chases that bleed the coffers dry.”

John poked the last bit of his burger into his mouth and turned in his seat to regard the tuft of hair that was Will.  “Our Will is still asleep. Poor little bugger.”

“How very observant of you. It remains a mystery why you ever quit field work.”

“Same old Pellinore.” John leaned forward, arms on his thighs.  “Or are you? I was surprised that you put aside all that to take in little Will here.” Chanler smiled and allowed himself a small chuckle.

“I did what must be done. And it’s only temporary. I will be back out in the field immediately afterwards. Do not fret, Chanler. Unlike you, I do know how to put my training and expertise to good use and I don’t go jumping in where I am unwanted.”

Dead silence hung around them.

Immediately, Von Helrung flustered, short arms aflutter. He tried to intervene but was stopped by Chanler flinging out an arm. John’s face became furious, his trim brows bearing down upon his ice blue eyes.

“Don’t you dare, Pellinore. Don’t you fucking _dare_ bring any of that into this,” he spat. “You made your choice and I made mine. Whether we are both the better for it…that is neither here nor there. But—and you better listen, Pellinore—you have to get your fucking head out of your ass. This isn’t about me and it isn’t about you. We’ve all lost someone in the line of work and you know it. However, this is about Will and no one else.

“You don’t want him? Fine. But do not think for one second that just because we considered taking him in it was in spite of you! Are you that fucking self-absorbed? That a mere child would become some petty pawn in this chess game you concocted in that big head of yours just because it was me that showed up on your doorstep? For fuck sake, I wonder what you would have done if Muriel showed up instead!”

“Muriel was supposed to come?” Warthrop was shocked.

“Oh for—yes, Pellinore! She was worried about you too! But more importantly, she was supposed to come instead of Emily! Emily is the one that wants to adopt Will Henry. There I said it,” Chanler snapped, turning to Von Helrung as if daring him to rebuke him. He fell back onto his little crate, arms hanging over his splayed legs. “I’m tired of trying to beat around the bush to spare your feelings on this.”

“Spare my feelings?” barked Warthrop. “When you all decided without me who will adopt James’ son?”

“That wouldn’t be the case if you fucking answered your phone, Pellinore! This is why we are here; that is why I came! To give you that information so we can work with you on this! Jesus Christ. You want everyone to bend over backwards for you—poor Pellinore! He has it so bad! Do you really not think of anyone but yourself? You are not the only one that has hardships and grief. Get your act together if you want to even give a percentage of what James deserves towards his only child!”

“But Emily? Why Emily?”

“Who else but Emily Bates and her family? You seem to abhor the idea of Muriel and me taking in Will here, outside reasons notwithstanding. So who else? Would you rather him go to some other monstrumologists that I know for a fact you don’t hold in high regard? Or even better, just let him get adopted by complete strangers that have no tie to his own family? I thought that’s why you took him in the first place, Pellinore. Or was that all a crock to have a replacement for your loss of James?”

Pellinore surged to his feet, color high upon his cheeks. John leapt upwards, crate overturned in his fury, the cheap plastic clattering shrilly against the concrete. Festering hurt and resentment condensed into a current of palpable violence that hung thickly between the two men until their breaths became labored, lungs trying to breathe through the suffocating miasma.

“Do you really want to give Will a showcase of your behavior from my wedding night?”

“It’s not like it will matter anyway, will it, Chanler? Emily Bates will take in Will Henry and I will be nothing but a distant memory!” roared Warthrop, yanking Chanler by the jacket, arm ripping back.

“ _Stopp! Stoppen Sie beide!”_  cried Von Helrung, wedging his rotund body in-between the two men. “This is no way for you to act in James’ memory or for his son!”

Warthrop tossed Chanler’s jacket away in disgust. He twisted away from his master’s beseeching hands that tried to stop him but Warthrop would have none of it. He strode up to his front door, flung it open and smashed it shut behind him.

John ran his hand through his hair, body shaking with adrenaline and residual violence that stuck to his body like a million tiny burrs. He closed his eyes and cursed. Kicked over the bag left by Pell and then kicked it again for good measure.

“Fuck. FUCK. Fuck that pigheaded, selfish bastard! Fuck this shit!” He picked up the crumpled piece of trash and hurled it at the Daytona. It bounced off listlessly, rolling to the ground with a pathetic thud.

Chanler lunged for the wad, smashed it in his hands and tossed it in the passenger seat of his convertible. Then he cursed under his breath as soon as he spied Will still asleep in the back seat, oblivious to the turmoil surrounding him. John collapsed onto the little crate and buried his head in his hands.

John didn’t move. His breathing was harsh, the sound escaping between his splayed fingers. He jerked as he felt a warm hand fall on his shoulder and instantly his breathing became rougher and uncontrolled.

“Why is he willing to throw everything away just to hold onto the past, Abram? Even against the sake of someone else? Does he really only care about himself? Have I been wrong all these years?” His voice fell into a scant whisper, bits of it snatched by the wind.

“Oh John…I do not think so. Pellinore is in such pain and he refuses to see it. He has always been like this. Do you not remember how he was when Alistair died? And that man wasn’t worth the dirt he was buried under. So how can he see it in others? He is so stubborn to the point of foolishness sometimes, even when we are all sharing the same goal.”

A hand fell from John’s face. He ran the other consolingly through his hair and he took an unsteady breath, eyes trained upon the closed door. Then he clasped his hands together upon his thighs, fingers interlocking as he gave a stiff nod.

“What about Will, _Meister_ Abram? That boy only deserves the best. God, I wish I could take that child in myself,” he said ruefully, shaking his head in dismay. “I might not have known James or Mary as well as you guys but that boy is so much their son, it hurts. Why must Pell say one thing but then act totally different? He wants his blasted work and the boy gone and out of his hair, so why is he being such a goddamn ass about it? He acted as if we decided to chuck the child over to Walker for fuck’s sake.”

Abram gave John’s shoulder a reassuring squeeze before ambling over to Warthrop’s vacated seat, plopping down on the tiny toolbox.

“His work has always come first, yes? We know that this has always been his drive. My most avid pupil in the field and he cannot think of anything else beyond his next find! His next report! Else he shall wallow and go mad! We understand this. But this is the first time in many years I have seen something that has disrupted that priority.”

Sapphire eyes held light blue and the older man reached out to pat John’s knee. “If his work was his only passion, would he have reacted so? Something drives our Pellinore.” Von Helrung turned to regard the boy slumbering away in the backseat and Chanler followed his gaze. “But I’m afraid that even I am not sure what it is. I only hope it turns out well for them both.”

 

***

 

Von Helrung returned to his former pupil’s residence, leaving Chanler in charge of watching over Will as he slept, until either the boy woke up or he returned with the research and samples that Dr Warthrop had entrusted to him.

Chanler had fallen into a fitful doze in the passenger seat when Von Helrung returned several hours later with Warthrop in tow, both of them burdened with several folders of documents and a soft plastic cooler. Von Helrung roused John with a quiet greeting and a shake of his shoulder.

Immediately John woke with a start, arms uncrossing themselves as he gripped the door. He rubbed his eyes and exited the vehicle to wake Will Henry while his mentor and former friend secured their belongings into the passenger seat.

Will had awoken similarly and luckily John had the foresight to slip the drink cup from Will’s limp hands. The boy blinked blearily, body tensing. Chanler smiled softly and instantly the boy relaxed back into the leather with a yawn. With some help from John, Will exited the two-door convertible and wandered over to Warthrop’s side, cup and lunch in hand.

Dr Warthrop had glared at his friend the entire time, as cagey and distrustful as guard dog with a stranger. Even when he shook his mentor’s hand goodbye and given him an awkward farewell embrace, his dark eyes hardly ever left his friend, who stood off to the side leaning against his convertible, hands tucked into the safety of his pockets.

The man only moved when Will hugged him goodbye, jerking in surprise as small arms wrapped themselves softly about his waist. With a shy smile, Will thanked him for all he did for him today. With a peculiar look, Chanler wrapped one arm about the boy, tugging him close. He murmured something that Will couldn’t catch but hugged him tighter for all the sentiment that could be felt regardless. Von Helrung received the same, happily returning another tight bear hug to the small boy and telling Will and Pellinore to come and visit them as soon as possible.

Then they left, the pair backing out of the drive with a final wave before being swallowed by the surrounding landscape.

When Will turned around after watching them disappear from view, the doctor was nowhere to be seen. Will went inside but even then, it was as if the doctor had vanished. He wasn’t in the kitchen where Will went to put up his leftovers and both the basement and the study doors were open and bereft of any light.

Hoping the doctor would return soon to ease the pittering worry of his heart, Will sat back down to his math homework, finishing it before ten. But the doctor had not returned and no sound emanated from the house, offering any chance of solace to Will’s skittering thoughts.

So Will trudged upstairs, repeating the same motions he had done so many times before. He didn’t want to look back at the doctor’s closed-off door only to see that it wasn’t lit either. But when he switched off the hall light and plunged them all to darkness, he didn’t have a choice. The darkness mocked him and forcing down a desperate outpouring of emotion Will raced up his ladder, unwilling to address the tormenting emptiness any longer.

 

***

 

The cry ripped the boy from his sleep—a desperate keening cry that lures one to the side of a wounded animal no matter how much it may snap and bite, clawing to be free of its pain. To this shout Will Henry ran, every second precious to his sleep-scrabbled brain.

With burning eyes, he pushed through the bleached hallway, answering the doctor’s call.

Trapped in his sheets, the boy found him shivering violently as if gripped in a feverish plight. His face was corpse white, unshaven stubble further hollowing the shadows cast by his sunken cheeks. Beads of sweat dotted his brow and accumulated on his upper lip. He breathed harshly, sheets clenched in shaking hands. Skittering eyes found the boy in the doorway, seizing upon his obscured form swathed in the blinding light.

“Will Henry?”

The figure wavered slightly as if dissolving back into the light. He took a step, then another. In a wink, he vanished. Several beats later, something scraped to the man’s right. He jerked, hands tightening.

The boy reappeared, illuminated in the gash of light as sudden and fleeting as a flash of lightening. Pushing his chair into place, he climbed into it, situating himself by the man’s bedside. Their eyes searched for the other in the gloaming, the boy and the man, tracing the barest outline of the other.

The man broke first, eyes dropping towards his hands as they smoothed out his rumpled counterpane.

“Will Henry. Whatever are you doing awake? It is not yet the weekend. You still have school, do you not?”

A quick glance back and he still found those fathomless eyes trained on him, binding him as effectively as Prometheus upon the rock. Those hidden honey-gold eyes that threatened to tear into his flesh if he but let them.

“You called me, sir.”

“Are you sure, Will Henry? I do not remember doing so.”

“Yes, sir. You did. That’s why I came.”

_That is why I came…_

Warthrop turned away. “What is the hour?”

He heard the boy stifle a yawn. “I believe it’s almost one, sir.”

“ _You believe it_ , Will Henry? So you do not know?”

“I couldn’t see it very well but my clock was around that time.”

Warthrop grunted. “I think I might have caught something. I suspect it was Dr Chanler’s terrible taste in cuisine.”

The boy rubbed his eyes, yawning again. “I had some too before we came back home and I’m not sick.”

“Well, you are a child. Everyone knows that children have the strongest constitutions. It is why they are able to lick door handles and eat dirt without being sick, whilst infecting everyone else in the household.” He snorted. “Perhaps you contracted something from that breeding ground for pestilence and passed on your latent illness to me, Will Henry.”

The boy looked up, expression stricken in the faint glow. “No, sir! I’m not sick! And I would never make you sick.”

“Whatever do they teach you in that public school you attend? We do not have the power to ‘choose’ whether or not to make someone sick, Will Henry, any more than we have the power to choose who gets sick. I am merely postulating on the possible route of infection. Given that I feel ill mere hours after consuming Chanler’s abhorrent fare that is the more likely route. Though given your sudden look of relief, Will Henry, I am starting to suspect perhaps you did get me sick.”

“I’m just glad I wasn’t—I mean…I don’t ever want you to fall ill, sir.”

“Hmph. Sounds like you are more relieved that you are not to blame rather than me not being sick to begin with.”

The boy’s gaze fell to his oversized shirt, the same one gifted by the man all those weeks ago. He worried the threadbare fabric.

“It’s both, sir. I don’t want you to get sick from anyone.”

Warthrop fell back onto his pillows with an aggrieved sigh. “Sometimes I do wonder what is going on in your head sometimes, Will Henry.” He stared at the ceiling in silence, the only sound coming from the boy himself as he rustled in his seat or tried to stifle a yawn.

“Am I keeping you awake?”

The boy’s eyes shot awake at that, looking comical in the yellowish glow.

“N-no, sir!” he squeaked.

Warthrop huffed, frowning as he stared up at the small boy. “You know my stance on lying, Will Henry.”

“Yes, sir,” he replied, fidgeting uncomfortably in his seat.

Warthrop pinched the bridge of his nose. “Why do I feel as if I had this conversation with you before, Will Henry? ‘Yes, sir’ in that I am keeping you awake, or ‘yes, sir’ in that you understand my stance on lying?”

“Both, sir.”

“Oh for—Will Henry, if there is anything I cannot stand more than lying, it is the sycophantic parroting of your ‘no, sirs’ and ‘yes, sirs’ as if I just employed some slow-witted servant to follow me around and obey my every whim!”

“Yes si—y-yes, Dr Warthrop.” Will caught himself in time, but that did nothing to abate the flickering disapproval that pierced straight through his stammering heart.

Warthrop closed his eyes and turned his head away, as if he couldn’t look at the boy any longer.

“Talking with you is like traversing Escher’s staircase; when I think I’m actually getting somewhere with you, I’m right back where I started!” The doctor clenched his eyes in frustration and smacked a fist against the mattress. He sighed and regarded the ceiling, eyes roving across the eddying static.

The boy waited patiently for the doctor to say something, playing with fingers that he held tightly in his lap. But the doctor seemed to retreat somewhere he could not follow. Slumping back in the cushioned chair, Will rubbed his eyes in his effort to stay awake. Despite trying to be discreet about his copious yawns and exhaustion, Warthrop caught him and frowned at his behavior.

“If you are that tired, Will Henry, why don’t you go to bed?”

“Because you might still need me.”

“Well, you aren’t doing anything, Will Henry. So that is a moot point. Your constant fidgeting is quite distracting.”

“I think I will, sir.”

“Will, what?”

“Go to bed.”

“Then why are you still sitting there?”

Sliding listlessly out of the seat onto his feet, Will shuffled to the door. His eyes felt heavy, constantly drooping shut and Will stumbled out into the open hall, dragging his feet one in front of another.

Before he even made it around the bend to his ladder, he heard the soft call of his name from behind. The boy turned, thinking that perhaps finally his exhaustion was playing games with him and making him hear things.

But again came the call, more insistent. So Will dragged himself back.

“I neglected to bring up something that was brought to my attention today,” Warthrop explained, waving the boy back into the chair. Taking his spot once again, the boy sat on the edge of his seat, hands clasped upon his knees.

“While you were with…while you were outside, _Meister_ Abram brought up a most curious, but relevant point to our current predicament.” Warthrop smoothed out a wrinkle on his lap. “In a way, Will Henry, I am your mentor as well as your first foray into the field of aberrant biology. As such, it is my duty towards my craft to ensure you retain some resemblance of knowledge as long as you reside under my roof.”

Will’s eyes shone in the lambent light and he leaned forward, hands gripping his seat. “While I’m…here? With you, sir?”

Warthrop looked at the boy strangely. “Why yes, Will Henry. How else are you supposed to gain direct tutelage from me when you are not here with me?”

The boy squirmed in his chair, fisting the fabric of his pajama shirt. Something welled within him as effervescent and light as the scattering of stars beneath his reaching hands.

“I will do my best,” he replied, voice sounding strange to his own ears.

“Indeed.” Warthrop cleared his throat and sat up in bed, hands folded upon his lap atop the coverlet.

“When I was a little older than you, I chose the path of monstrumology.  Though it had been a consistent factor throughout my entire childhood thanks to my father, it was not my first choice; I blame that entirely on the tendency of prepubescence to choose something that is entirely unworthy of pursuing.  You see, my father was a renowned monstrumologist himself, contributing much to the advancement of our Society’s research. As I am currently, my father did a majority of his research in this very same house which he bequeathed to me several years ago. I merely continue his great work, as I believe you hope to do with your own father. But I digress.”

He focused all the intensity of his being on the little boy, the space between them so infinitesimal yet so monstrously large. His voice rang clear, cutting across that void as piercing and bright as sunlight through endless space. 

“So I have decided. I shall educate you in the ways of monstrumology in the manner that Dr von Helrung had done for me. This is a very fortuitous opportunity on your part, Will Henry. I do not take in apprentices or assistants of any kind, with only your father as the exception. I find most of them more toadying than they are useful or without an iota of cerebral matter between their ears. You have been quite indispensable to me these past few weeks and I believe that your father would be most pleased that it is you who will carry on in his place.”

For several thumps of his overly excited heart, Will couldn’t believe what he had heard. So exhausted was he, he felt as though he was currently dreaming this entire scenario. The doctor, still wishing to have him by his side? And not only that, he wished to continue to teach him his father’s craft, finding that he was someone he could rely on. It was a heady dose straight to the source of his worries and Will found himself reeling, dizzy and elated all at once.

“I cannot have you falling out of chairs and knocking yourself out once again, Will Henry. Go to bed. After school you will resume your duties with me. Dr von Helrung has taken my research to Ms Cooper so we will resume your father’s work with the _Naegleria fowleri._ I wish to have that finished as soon as possible to send into National Institutes of Health for furthering their records on the outreach of this particular organism in the southern United States. I cannot have you falling asleep in the middle of your duties to me.”

Will nodded, still too bound by the constant echo of the doctor’s words. _You have been quite indispensable to me…_

Warthrop laid back down on the bed with a sigh and closed his eyes. He was no longer pale and feverish, as if he had unburdened himself of whatever plagued him.

Quietly, Will stepped out of the darkness into the light, pausing at the entrance to glance back at the doctor. Then he left, heart buoyant upon the sea that resided within his soul.

***

 

 


	14. Falling Fast, Something Must Shatter

As March gave away to April, the ragtag pair worked more diligently and ruthlessly than ever before.  Something fueled Pellinore Warthrop and nothing could hold him back; not the pull of the sun, not the inevitable call of hunger and not the beguiling lure of sleep itself. The only things Warthrop conceded to his body’s demands were the never-ending cups of Darjeeling and various trips to the bathroom. For Will, it would seem his blood ran thick with it until he was sure that was all that held this man together: his work and his tea.

Will dragged his sleep-deprived body up the basement stairs, having lost count of how many times he made this trip so far. He slumped against the counter as he waited for the kettle to boil. Despite it being slower, Warthrop demanded Will boil his tea instead, preferring the taste of that over using the microwave. After a while, Will didn’t care that the doctor wanted the more time-consuming process; it allowed him a short break from countless reams of words and calculations that spun like an incessant chant in his head. Not only that, it allowed him to swipe a snack or two to ease his neglected appetite.  

The doctor toiled day and night, throwing himself headlong in the comforting embrace of his resumed work. Like a beloved drug, it numbed and blinded him to the crushing void of nothingness that yawned forever behind him, a ravenous shadow that dogged his every step waiting for the moment he would trip and it could pounce. Pellinore Warthrop ran, hurling himself away from its open maw. But like everyone else in that race he belonged to, he was only human.

Within a week, Warthrop finished his work. And within that week, he succumbed.

The doctor laid down his pen, having signed his signature beneath his and James’ work. He stared at his cramped and curled signature, alone beneath the byline of the two names. Without preamble, the paper was thrust at Will, fluttering free from his grasp. Will called to him, but Warthrop seemed to be far away, lost to something just out of reach.

Warthrop struggled to escape the choking void but without anything to occupy his chaotic intellect, to secure it from being adrift in the tumultuous churning of his inner demons, he could no longer fend it off. It swallowed him whole, a lifeless body with eyes that saw nothing.  

And thus began the feverish wait, like time dripping slowly from a viscid sieve of opium-induced stupor. Warthrop could sometimes be found in his study, staring listless out of his window for hours at a time, long arms hanging limply over the sides of his creaking chair.

Once when Will came home from school, he found Warthrop slumped  against one of the leather wingbacks of his father's library, barricaded in by a mountain of haphazardly tossed books, some of which were crookedly open and misplaced as if their owner had become fed up with their stories and thrown them aside. The doctor made no sign that he even heard Will come home, fingers absentmindedly caressing the open book that sat upon his lap.

Every chance he got, Will tried to tempt the doctor with food or tea, distressed by the doctor's swift descent into melancholia, which seemed to worsen by the day. But Warthrop refused, claiming no appetite or taking a sip or two and then leaving the rest to turn old and sour.

Day after day it digested Warthrop, his thin face becoming so gaunt and drawn that Will felt his ashen skin would tear, so tight it stretched across his cheekbones. Warthrop seemed to lose all sense of basic human needs, forgoing showering and shaving until the boy felt as though the man had been replaced with a vagrant shadow of the doctor that had first picked him up all those weeks ago.

"What is there for me, Will Henry? If I were to die upon this chair, would anyone mourn my god-forsaken corpse? How long until Robert comes across me moldering away in this mausoleum of mine?"

Stricken by the turn of the doctor's thoughts, the boy rushed to his side. "There is your work, sir. You have that.”

The boy didn’t know what to do. The doctor had finally released the Titans trapped within the stronghold of his mind where they had been safely tucked away, there but unseen. By voicing them, they were given substance and made real, terrifying in their capacity.

He turned to the boy with those startling eyes filled with pitch, its depths deep and endless; for if the eyes are truly the windows to the soul, then what happens when they shatter?

"My work? There is no more work, Will Henry! Were you not there when you writ out my letter? God, what use are you if you cannot remember the most basic of tasks?"

The boy recoiled as if stuck, taking a few steps back. "That's not what I meant, sir. It's just that...like with Dr Kearns. There will be more work for you to complete."

"You are a child, not a seer or one of the Fates, Will Henry. How are you to know what is in store for me? Perhaps this was my last expedition. There will be no more to which the name of Warthrop shall be affixed to," he lamented. "While everyone else continues upon their journey in this new century, I shall rot, forgotten as the gods of old in their abandoned temples."

"You can't mean that, sir," cried Will softly. "My father said you have done lots for your science. They can’t forget you."

"Why ever not? Many scientists are lost to obscurity of their greater counterparts like the unseen star in a binary system! There but always unseen and unknown, forever lost to the brilliance of their better half! What was the point of even existing in the first place? I will be forgotten and lost like Chien-Shiung Wu to Lawrence or Rosalind Franklin to Klug!

“I have sacrificed everything to my work. What do I have left if not that?” he cried. He shook his head, as if to free himself from the influx of thoughts that threatened to bind him with their mockery. At the man's distress, the boy took a hesitant step forward.

“You have me, sir.”

The doctor raised his haunted eyes towards Will, arresting him where he stood. "You? You are but a boy! How will you remember me?"

Will looked away, averting his gaze. "I will always remember you."

The boy did not elaborate because he wasn't sure the doctor would understand what he himself didn’t entirely understand. What exactly kept him by the side of this churlish and sometimes frightening man instead of leaving? Whatever it was, it had taken root within his chest, entwined throughout his ribs and seizing his heart. With the doctor's cries, Will understood inherently the fear that he voiced despite being warped with his hubris and self-pity.

Suddenly Warthrop snatched the little boy's hands in his own, ice bound around Will’s warmth. His eyes blazed a hellish fire, stirred from the cold ashes that lay quelled.

"Will you? Will you, Will Henry?” he whispered fervently, face so close to the boy's he saw himself consumed in his eyes. "There is no one—no one but you who I have left to carry on my work with me. I have no family left and shall have none; my work is not suited for that idyllic lifestyle. It is you I must now entrust everything to. It is you that must carry on the burden of my inheritance, Will Henry! Will you promise me that all I have done will not be in vain?"

And even if he wanted to, Will could not say no, could not deny this man what he had asked, had beseeched him to do. It was desperate, that need for validation, to be recognized, to be needed and wanted, that tore within the both of them until their racing hearts bled together with a desire too great for either of them to comprehend.

Will nodded, heart in his throat. It was all he could do.

_Promise me..._

The doctor slid his hands free from Will's. He got up, hobbling like one stricken with some sort of seasonal fever, knuckles bone-white as he gripped the leather armrests. Pulling himself taut, he swayed upon his feet, bumping into some of the book piles.  He clamped a hand to his forehead, gripping it tightly as if stuck behind the eyes. He breathed shallowly for a few seconds before his hand dropped listlessly from his ashen face.

"I am going to lie down, Will Henry," he stated.

Will stepped aside as the doctor shuffled towards the door, bypassing the large mahogany table that encompassed a majority of the library. As soon as Warthrop walked by him, Will immediately adhered himself behind the doctor, following him out the door.

"Shall I make you tea, sir?"

Warthrop skidded to a halt and turned to the boy, who almost crashed into him at his abrupt stop.

"Tea? _Tea_ , Will Henry? I said I am going to lie down, not have a full English tea with the Queen. I’ve been plied with enough tea, Will Henry, that I fear you have given me a full body transfusion of the stuff. Prod my veins and it is not blood you will find but copious amounts of tea instead!” He glared at the boy. “And must you hover about me like a mother hen? I am not infirm or ill, Will Henry."

Something in the way the boy looked up at him must have irked him as he pinched his eyes and sighed in exasperation. "I do not require anything from you, Will Henry. I simply wish to rest. I cannot think of the last time I have slept."

Leaving the boy in the hallway, Warthrop made his way up the stairwell, hand gliding up the worn bannister. He rejoined the awaiting gloom that had sought shelter on the 2nd floor with the outpouring of sunlight from the windows below.

Will heard a soft click as the doctor retreated to his bedroom, the first time Will had seen him do so since coming to live with him.

And so Will left, returning to the kitchen table with a bowl of leftover soup he had made for himself and the doctor (which he had refused). Whether the doctor slept or not, Will did not know. However, he still tended to his personal tasks diligently, in case the bellowing of his name demanded he give them up to attend to the doctor's side.

The doctor's malady became the newest companion to that forlorn household, sparing neither the child nor the man. Warthrop hardly left his room, languishing in his sweat-soaked sheets while constantly bemoaning his fate of perishing into nothingness. Will slowly became more withdrawn in both school and at home, doing whatever it is someone asked of him to do, whether it was his teacher, his friends or the doctor.

Despite his claims otherwise, Will often became the man’s pseudo-servant, running to and fro from his bedside to make tea, tempt him with food, check and deliver his mail or to gather throws and blankets despite the suffocating, stale atmosphere he insisted on cultivating by keeping his bedroom windows shut. It didn’t help that Will couldn’t tend to the doctor while he was at school so the doctor made up for that loss by demanding more attention as soon as Will set foot back into the house.

Nothing seemed to pull Warthrop from his depression; not the latest letter or magazine from his scientific journals, not a novel tidbit from his latest musical gossip or emails and letters from associates—all of which were read aloud and completely disregarded. Warthrop did not even give into his particular joy of correcting Will's pronunciation of obscure jargon or names. With anxiety swelling through him, Will would drive on, desperate for any kind of reaction, even if was a snappish remark.  

Time beat slowly and suffocating, drowning both in drooling tendrils of amber. Sometimes on a passing whim, Will would remember to bathe or sleep or snatch a bite here or there. But nothing could surmount the constant worry that plagued every vein in his body, clogging and choking the air from his lungs.

And then one mid-April night, deliverance came with a single knock, pulverizing the house’s silence.

Will dropped his spoon in fright, the metal cracking upon the stone tile. Remnants of noise splintered like shellfire and Will trembled, shards of sound embedded in his ear.

The knock came again and Will cowered against the tabletop. It wouldn't cease and even worse, it became more incessant, demanding Will clamp his hands over his ears to stop the ringing that sent his pulse rocketing throughout his body.

"Will Henry! Will Henreeee! Snap to! Answer the door!"

The yell flung Will out of his chair and he stumbled to answer the doctor's command, its irritated bite telling Will that there were probably other shouts before that one.

Hands slipping as he tried to grip the doorknob made slick with sweat, Will took no notice of the shadowy figure that lurked on the other side. Having heard his name snapped with such ire, Will only sought to complete what the doctor demanded of him.

Flipping on the porch light, Will yanked open the door.

Lurking in the corner as if repelled by the onslaught of light stood a hunched figure, hands thrust into his torn jeans pocket. It growled.

"Sheesh, shut off the damn light, will you? Do you want the whole neighborhood to see? Fuck's sake, shut that damn thing off!"

Terrified, Will did as the voice bade and scrambled to obey.

The world was dark save the soft amber light that eddied and lapped about Will's feet. The figure emerged forward, halting on the edge of the light, shimmering pitch congealing against the staid night sky.

He craned his neck to peer about Will, allowing the light to scratch the shadows from his chalky face. He appeared to be in his early twenties but already his eyes and mouth were bracketed with deep grooves, further exacerbated by his patchy facial hair and eyes like peeled grapes. The jaundiced light dripped down his lanky hair and hung in his eyes, reflecting dully along the bloodshot rims.

"Where's your guardian, boy? He said deliver it to him but I ain't seein' him around."

Will half-hid behind the door, putting the thick wood as a barrier between him and this abnormal man who kept skirting the shadows, unwilling to touch any of the light.

"You mean the doctor?"

The man waved his hand. "Yeah, yeah, that's the dude. You gonna get him or not?"

"What do you need him for?"

"Jesus christ, what're you? His friggin' gatekeeper? Just tell him I got a package for him from his friend or something." Will kept peeking hesitantly at the figure, who apparently took umbrage to his reticence and snapped, "Get going kid! I haven't got all night!"

Hastily shutting the door and locking it for good measure, Will bolted up the steps, pulse skittering beneath his flushed skin. With frightened steps, Will toppled into the doctor's bedroom, clinging to the doorknob as it dragged him across the floor.

"Will Henry! Who was at the door? And why are you stumbling through my door like a drunkard?"

Pulling himself upright, Will wiped his hands on his dirty trousers and came to the doctor's bedside, where the man was half-seated atop the wrinkled covers, hands clasped in his lap.

"I-it's a man...for you."

"A man?"

"Yes. He says he has a package."

"A package."

"A package from a friend. He didn't say anything else."

"Will Henry, that has to be the worst attempt at answering a door I have ever heard. A man with a package this late in the hour?  Could he be some incompetent postal worker that has merely lost his way? Or is it perhaps something a bit more nefarious?"

"I locked the door, sir."

The doctor gave him a disapproving glance. "Well. That was quite rude, Will Henry."

Will just stared at the doctor lying indolently on his counterpane, remembering how he had slammed the door on his mentor and locked it to boot. How the doctor didn't see the hypocrisy of his chiding was completely lost on Will.

"Well, let's tend to our visitor, Will Henry. If we leave whoever it is upon our doorstep any longer, I fear he might become quite irate and pummel our door into oblivion."

Forcing himself out of bed, Warthrop made his way down the stairs, his overgrown hair sticking up in the back and curling over his limp and musty shirt collar. Scrubbing his hand across his pale and bearded face, Warthrop sighed then affixed a deep scowl in place, ready to snap at whoever decided to interrupt his self-imposed melancholia.

He yanked the lock free and flung open the door.

"Fuckin’ christ what took y—"

The young man drew up short as he encountered the sour-faced Dr Warthrop in all his bedraggled glory, complete with crumpled outfit and piercing, hollowed out eyes.

"If that is your greeting to me, you can kindly leave before I take it to mind to kick you off my property myself," stated Warthrop.

"Ah, but if you do that, then you ain't getting this thing from your friend." The man's voice took on a defiant, weaselly quality.

Warthrop narrowed his eyes. "And what would that be? Your avid use of description leaves me truly astounded."

The young man drew up to his full height, trying to look imposing. Yet he was still a full foot shorter than the doctor, who glared at him from the stoop and crossed his arms, fingers drumming out an irritated rhythm.

"It's this, man," said the man with a syrupy flourish, whipping out a thick manila envelope from inside his half-zipped jacket. "I was told to give it to you and that you’d want it."

Warthrop rose a brow haughtily. "Why should I be interested in the ramblings of some vulgar stranger upon my doorstep? Do not think I haven’t noticed that you refuse to acknowledge this 'person' who gave you this package. I don't have time for such nonsensical guessing games."

The doctor made to shut the door in the man's face, but it erupted into a rambling grin of red gums and chapped lips. The shrinking stripe of light highlighted his feral features as he merely replied, "Doctor Koury was right on the nose about you."

Warthrop ripped the door open so hard, he nearly beamed Will in the face.

"Who did you say?" His voice was a dangerous whisper.

The man's yellowed teeth peeled across his face. " _Doc-tor Cor-ree_ ," he replied in a sing-song voice, disjointed teeth cracking open like spoiled fruit.

Warthrop sneered. "Why would Doctor Koury send you in his stead? We do have this brilliant invention called the telephone, and if I am not mistaken, the US postal system still functions to a viable degree."

The man shrugged and tucked the envelope under his soiled jacket arm. He rummaged in his pocket, removed a pack of gum and proceeded to stuff two pieces into his cheek like chaw before chewing away. He chewed with his mouth open, crooked teeth pulverizing the gum to Warthrop's unmitigated disgust.

The man seemed to delight in needling him, avidly watching the doctor flick his agitated gaze to the envelope then back to the man's chomping jaws. The sound grated on both Will and Warthrop and Will fought the impulse to cover his ears.

"Well, Doc Koury gave me some dough to personally deliver this baby to you so here I am. Told me to say that he couldn't tell you over the phone or send it in the mail, you know? Whatever man, but it's for the doc that lives here. Told me your name and told me what’cha looked like—" he leered at the doctor, looking him up and down "—and I can't put much stock in his words now I'm seeing the real thing up close."

Warthrop bristled, reining in the urge to remove himself from the man's unsavory line of sight.

"Whatever Ke—Koury told you, I assure you that I am Doctor Pellinore Warthrop. You can hand me my property now." He held out his hand.

The man continued to chew his gum. Working it like a wad of tobacco, he flicked his dull eyes toward Warthrop’s outstretched hand. Then back up at his face. With great deliberateness, he poked out his tongue and blew a massive bubble until it popped.

“I ain’t done yet.”

“I am holding out my hand for the package, you imbecile.”

“Ain’t yours ‘til you paid for it.”

“What? I thought you said that Dr Koury paid you for its delivery!”

“Got that right, old man. But now you gotta pay to get it.”

Warthrop sputtered, yanking his hand back and balling them into fists. "But it's my package!" he cried.

The man smiled. "Oh no, it ain't. You see, I got it here and Doc Koury's dough was only enough to pay for my ride and then some. But seeing as I got it here all nice and safe, the least you can do is pay for it."

Warthrop said nothing, seething in the doorway.

The man scuffed his sneaker against the stoop, hands back in his pockets.  "A couple thousand should do."

Warthrop exploded. "A couple thousand? You’re a completely disgusting individual if you think I would gladly give you any sort of monetary value for something that is rightfully mine!"

The man sighed and began shifting through his pockets again. "Figures. Gotta do everything myself. Why'd I ever think I might be dealing with people that have sense?"

Warthrop took a step into the puddle of sickly light. "You will give me the package now, else I will call the cops on your thieving corpse."

Something clicked and suddenly a minuscule flame winked into existence, licking hungrily on the corner of the envelope.

"Nuh uh, doc. I get my payment, else you ain't getting your package."

Warthrop lunged for the letter, but the man danced out of his grasp. He laughed gleefully.

"Ohh, it must be a real important one too. Told me not to peek and everything, else it would be ba—ad for me. I wonder what's in it but oop, it looks like the fire's caught hold of it." He plucked it free of his armpit and held it high, several embers trailing in its wake.

"FINE!" shouted Warthrop, raising hands in surrender. However, his face was twisted with fury, the rain of light warping his features further until he looked like the wrath of Hyde himself, lip curling in loathing.

Satisfied, the man smacked the fire out against his ratty jacket and blew on it for good measure, grinning at every furthering of the doctor's disgust.

"Will Henry," growled the doctor, not removing his eyes from his quarry, "Retrieve my money clip. You heard the amount. Retrieve exactly that much. No more or less."

Will ran to do the doctor's bidding, disappearing into the study.

The doctor's eyes narrowed as he addressed the man. "Any untoward action from you and I will not hesitate to choke the living daylights out of you."

The man laughed wildly at that. "Oh! Scary! Should I try something just to see if the dead-beat dad can stand up to his big-boy words?"

Warthrop's fingers twitched. "Do not test me."

The man spat his gum out into the bushes. "Pfft, whatever man. You ain't tough. Prissy boy in his big dirty house ain't got two words to rub together that can scare me. Just gimme my rightful payment and I'll be on my merry way. I always keep my promises!"

Warthrop sneered. “However Jack found you, not to mention deem you trustworthy enough to deliver his package, is lost on me. I shall have to have a word with him when he decides to show his face again.”

“Oh ho! Ja-ack, eh? A wife ain’t good ‘nough for you?” The man tapped his chin. “Oh, I got it! No wife would have you. That’s it, isn’t it?” he exclaimed with glee. “I mean I wouldn’t either with a hairy mug like that!”

When Will pulled open the door, a fistful of currency in his hands, Will truly believed he had just prevented a precipitated murder on behalf of the doctor.

Warthrop hauled himself away from the man who merely laughed at the timeliness of the boy’s arrival.

“Ah, ah, Doc! Looks like your boy here saved your sorry ass! Not that I mind being able to live another day but ah…you see, I don’t put much stock in living but instead how many people I can bring down with me!” He howled with delight and hocked a wad of spit at Warthrop’s feet. “But I’ll take that money of yours and that’s just as good. With that I can have better company than your sorry self!” He cupped his hands into an obscene gesture.

“That is enough!” roared Warthrop, losing all sense of decorum at the man’s behavior. “Hand over the folder and then I will give you your payment.”

The man lolled his head as if wasn’t completely attached to his neck. “Ah doc…” he sighed. “You know that ain’t how it works.”

“I’m not letting Will Henry anywhere near you until I get my package first and foremost. I am a doctor and have the credence. You, however, have lost all sense of scruples and you are testing your fortuitousness in staying.”

With a _whap!_ the envelope landed at the doctor’s feet.

Suddenly the sickly stench of alcohol and sweat choked Will as hot hand clamped itself around his neck.

Terror ripped through the boy. He froze, petrified as he felt the minute twist of steel tighten against his neck. He shuddered.

Serpent-quick teeth snapped by Will’s ear, chewing a wreckage of broken laughter. “Why, thank you, boy. That’ll do…yes, seems you counted out right. Do your doc proud for me, hmm?”

Will gagged.

With a splintering laugh, the man flung Will from him. A shout erupted, pooling viscously around his head. Something pressed tight against his ribcage and stifled his breathing. The torrential light warped, encasing a shade that hovered over him.

He couldn’t hear anything. Sound buzzed in his ear like an infestation of insects; all thought rotted and fell away. Everything swirled in brackish spill of scum and corruption, bubbling at the edges of his vision. He panted, trying to gulp the cool night air.

Suddenly, frantic hands held his face and shook him slightly. With a gasp, Will broke the dark surface, caught in the fevered eyes of the doctor.

“Did he hurt you, Will Henry? Did he? Will Henry! Answer me!”

There was an urgency to his voice that Will never heard before. The boy blinked; something caught against his lashes. Then he coughed, expelling a fetid taste from his mouth.

“N-no, sir. I’m not sure…I feel ok.” Will’s head swam as he tried to sit up.

Instantly the doctor seized him, hands like vices upon his shaky shoulders.

“You stupid, stupid boy! I told you not to get near that man! Did you not think he wasn’t capable of insidious purpose?”

The boy shook beneath his trembling hands. “No, sir. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to.”

The doctor kept his eyes on him, lost to the night that cloaked them both. He opened his mouth. Snapped it shut. Then he broke away, jerking to his feet with a cough, looking out into the murk.

“Ahem, yes. Take care next time, Will Henry. Lying and deceit are usually used as effective cloaking devices for those that wish to conceal their true intentions but at the same time, the very existence of the cover can be sensed if one keeps their wits about them. But Will Henry, what is that in your hand?”

Will struggled to his feet, swaying slightly. At the abrupt change in the doctor’s tone from chiding to overtly curious, Will glanced out at his tightly balled fist, having lost all sensation in his extremities. Some crisp bits of paper poked from his hand and slowly his hand fell open, revealing several crumpled hundreds.

“I can hazard a guess that our visitor did not entirely get the amount he tried to finagle out of my funds,” said Warthrop with a dry chuckle. The doctor plucked the crumpled bills from Will’s palm and pocketed it. Then he bent over to retrieve the package from the stoop. “Excellent work, Will Henry.”

“Yes, sir,” croaked Will.

“You look terrible,” observed the doctor, opening the door. “Get yourself a glass of water and tidy yourself up. Then you can help me in the study with what it is that Doctor Kearns had delivered.”

Retreating to his study, Warthrop immediately began tearing into the envelope like a child with a gift, bits of it fluttering to the floor. His whole being teemed with vibrant energy from his friend’s well-timed parcel, the whole episode sloughed away from his memory as effectively as a snake sheds its skin, instantly forgotten.

Will shivered. Rubbing his hands up and down his arms, he made his way to the kitchen. Given the doctor’s enraptured expression, Will decided to make tea instead, knowing he would have the time to do so. He not only wanted something that could mask the sourness that permeated his mouth but since he kept shivering sporadically, he wanted something to chase away the chill that had taken root inside his body.

He put on the kettle and hovered close to the stove, hoping to absorb some of the intermittent heat from the soft blue flames curling beneath the teapot. It whistled brightly and Will hastily made two cups of tea, allowing his bare hands to linger on the warm ceramic and the steam to brush against his face. Finished making both his and the doctor’s drinks, Will shuffled towards the front of the house and made his way to the study.

Will had only been there a couple of times before since it was the doctor’s private retreat, but Will was startled by the shocking array of mess that now littered the floor. It seemed Warthrop had swept the entire contents of his desk onto the floor to make room for the contents of Kearns’ package. Pens, papers and books all created a small pile that Warthrop unwittingly kicked around in his excitement, scattering them under the furniture and across the room.

He perked up at the sound of Will’s entry. As the boy bumped the door further open with his backside, the doctor fell upon him, the very air crackling with charge.

“Will Henry! It is exactly what I have been expecting! My hypothesis is being proven correct as we speak! Come, come! Come see! The answer to this riddle is within my gasp!”

Will glanced up at the man, who seemed on the verge of spilling over with unbridled energy. Those eyes, once flat and dead were now animated, alight with his calling’s fire.

“I made tea. Here’s your cup, sir,” said Will passing over the less sweet of the two.

“Ah, thank you,” said the doctor, grabbing the mug of tea from Will’s hands. “Now snap to, Will Henry! I need to place a phone call as soon as possible but as my assistant, it is imperative that you are informed of this new development. I will require your services in creating extra copies after I have gone over this with you.”

Warthrop herded the boy to the leather seat in front of his desk, the eager teacher with his singular pupil. Before Will had even sat down Warthrop bounded headlong into his lecture, which despite his eagerness, did nothing to abate the dry monotonous tone that seeped into every syllable and bit of information he wished to impart on Will.

Plucking the teacup from Will’s hands before he even took a sip, Warthrop began handing papers over to his bewildered hands, at once getting the notes into disarray as he tried to grab hold of the overly numerous papers thrust at him. With a frown at Will’s apparent incompetence, Warthrop snagged back his papers and handed one at a time to the boy, who kept his eyes downcast upon the material and did his best to listen attentively to the esoterica being pummeled into his reeling brain.

Warthrop’s voice droned on, soporific with his familiarity and deliverance of the material. More than once Will found himself nodding off, cheek nestled against his shirtfront until he jerked himself awake, hoping the doctor wouldn’t notice. Sometimes even when Will managed to follow the doctor’s train of thought, Warthrop would derail from the topic at hand and jump aboard a tangential focus, ranging from the ancient origins of the roundworm species to well-known doctors in the field that have perfected treatments to combat their infestation upon human kind.

“Charles Darwin put forth in his _Origin of Species_ the theory that all life on earth evolve due to changes in their environment. So in order to propagate the line with the new set of environmental dictates or stressors, those with evolved abnormalities which benefit the race are those that survive and succeed to pass on the gene to the new generation, much like bacteria that evolve to become more resistant to modern antibiotics. It has been my conclusion from the onset that our sample is an example of this, as roundworms are commonly found in the intesti—“

A shrill ring pierced the silence.

Both of them jumped, Will instantly dropping the packet of papers onto the floor and several swooped under the desk like scattered leaves. With a scowl towards Will, Warthrop’s arm shot out and snatched the offending device from its wall perch and clamped it to his ear.

“Doctor Warthrop’s residence,” he ground out, peeved at being interrupted during his oration. “What is it that you require?”

The receiver hummed and unexpectedly Warthrop’s whole demeanor changed, softening from his uptight dourness to something more neutral.

“Ah Ms Cooper, what impeccable timing—yes, yes…No, not entirely." He turned away from Will, twiddling the phone cord distractedly while he listened.

"You don't say. Well, that is fortunate. I have just received an update on the case from my associate in the field...Yes. He is still there, so with any luck he will be able to continue until we come to a satisfactory conclusion. But before I address what he has sent me, what has your own studies entailed?"

Leashed to the extent of what his phone allowed, Warthrop paced the tiny space back and forth, pausing every once in a while to hum his assent or to make an abortive moment while voicing his agitation.

"No, no not NUS—yes, I know they are number one in their region with their Life Science specialization in monstru—Aisley. There is no action in heaven or hell that would convince me to make any sort of contact with that pretentious school that has no concept of hubris—what? Of course I do not hate Yap, but that does not mean I am required to consult her on anything, even if she might have some smattering of tropical parasitic knowledge."

The barest hint of laughter chimed in, wrenching a sigh from the doctor as he pushed back his overly long hair, bits of it draping over the phone.

"Are you quite done?" he retorted. He paused. Then sighed again. "While I do not understand your lack of enthusiasm for this latest discovery, I will concede that is an advantageous proposal. I will procure the tickets and be on the first train out tomor—what? What do you mean—fine, I understand. We will arrive Monday afternoon; do ensure that you are in residence. I will call you again with my precise arrival time into New York...You as well. Good bye."

Warthrop clicked the phone onto its stand. Expelling a breath, he rolled his shoulders and leaned wearily against the desk, lean hands gripping the heavy wood. His head tipped upwards, neck bare and pale against the scruffy beard that lined his thin face. His eyes darted, jittering in their sockets as he regarded something past the safeguard of books that lined the back of his study, their cracked leather armor of every earthy hue.

Will took his cooled tea and tentatively sipped it. He managed to drink most of it before Warthrop broke free from contemplation, shaking his head.

Like a bowstring snapping, he burst into a flurry of motion, sweeping the scattered papers into distorted pile. Will snatched the doctor’s mug before he could upend it in his haste. Warthrop tried to put the papers back into the folder but they wouldn’t fit, so he tossed it back upon the table in front of Will.

“Snap to, Will Henry! There is work to be done. We are going to New York the day after tomorrow.”

Will looked up from sorting the various papers, a small unopened envelope in hand. “New York?”

“Yes. Ms Cooper resides in New York City and you know her as the person that I had Dr von Helrung deliver my and Kearns’ research to a fortnight ago. With this latest addition from Dr Kearns, we are not only going to pass along the new information to further bolster my theory but to receive what she has discovered as well.

“Could you imagine, Will Henry? Not only have we the work from your father’s expedition with me but if this becomes as fruitful as I expect it will, I shall have two major breakthroughs to my name! Two! Not everyone gets to present a lecture at the annual Congress for Monstrumology, much less two, so this may be the most prolific and substantiated highlight of my entire career! It is what I have been striving towards for two decades ever since I decided to become a monstrumologist.”

The doctor glanced at Will. “What are you waiting for, Will Henry? Snap to, snap to!”

Will bolted out of his chair, papers clasped to his chest as he beat a hasty retreat into the kitchen, the doctor following immediately behind, barking out orders.

“The packing, Will Henry! I need my best suit; that can be found in my closet along with my ties—do not forget those! Shoes, toiletries—and my laptop too! Will Henry, whatever are you doing ambling around like a blind man?”

“I-I don’t know where a suitcase is,” said Will.

“How long have you lived with me? It is underneath the staircase, Will Henry. If not, then look for it. It obviously did not scuttle out of here on its own.”

Laying down the research on the laptop, Will ran out of kitchen to the cupboard under the stairs. It wrenched open with a dusty blech, leaving Will’s arms sore from tugging on the stubborn knob. Poking his head in the cramped space, Will found an old carry-on suitcase among the broom and cleaning supplies.

Instantly Will was set to work, cleaning the suitcase for travel while Warthrop organized his various papers, including several printed copies of the completed proposal for his and James’ research. Will hardly caught a wink of sleep that night as the doctor ordered him around the house for anything and everything.

“Fetch my instrument case! Will Henry, do we have Kearns’ copies transcribed to the laptop and backed up yet? No? Snap to, then! We must have extra copies! Have you completed my packing? What have you been doing in the meanwhile? What is this, Will Henry? I said my black tie, not the burgundy!”

By the time Will collapsed face first into his coverlet, he had not only retyped out several drafts of Kearns’ new additions but he had packed and repacked the doctor’s luggage to his ever-changing specifications.

Will turned his head, face cradled by the cold blanket. The delicate tick of his clock pounded in his head, amplified by his weariness. Without even undressing, Will crawled under the blanket like a wounded animal and fell asleep.

Not much later he was awake once again, trudging groggily down the ladder to answer the summons of the doctor, the early morning sun barely peeking through his tiny attic window.

_“Will Henreeee!”_

Even when asleep, the doctor yelled for him.

Will bolted from his slumber, heart racing as he wondered if the shrill call was a memory, a dream or the actual thing. As he slipped the attic door shut, he leaned tiredly against the rungs, rubbing the dregs of pitiful sleep from his eyes.

Did his father attend to Warthrop in a similar manner, the doctor barking his name and ordering him around like a servant rather than his assistant? And what was it that always had him jumping up to do the doctor’s bidding?

The man seemed to reside in his own world, crafted of his own hand and inhabited by his perpetually tortuous thoughts. Even when he had taken ill, lying upon his bed for hours without taking sustenance or sleep, he would fall prey to the penetralia of his mind like a languishing animal beneath the tearing beaks of scavengers. They pecked constantly, tearing and ripping until the man no longer complained even to Will, staring ceaselessly at the ceiling, comatose and unmoving.

But in the end, it was his work that saved him yet again.

His work! Always his work! Like Prometheus with his fire and Edison with his lightbulb, it was Warthrop’s work, those explosions of promise alighting upon the horizon like St. Elmo’s fire that drew the doctor from his abyss. Like a famished man, he stumbled towards the illuminated path, feverish and limbs askew, striving for the next chance to rend himself from the darkness.

“Nothing is vanity,” he once exclaimed, whether more to himself or to the boy, they did not know. “Nothing. I work because I must. It is not for myself I work but for all of those before me. I will not—I will not be forgotten, Will Henry!” And then he would swerve upon the boy, eyes of eldritch fire framed in the hollowed recesses of his skull.

And Will believed him, because even if Warthrop was lost to all else around him, Will knew he could never allow the doctor to be forgotten.

***  



	15. In Different Worlds

Early Monday morning a taxi arrived to retrieve Dr Warthrop and his assistant. If the cab driver had any inkling of who Dr Warthrop was from the rumors that surrounded his prominent name in the tiny hamlet of New Jerusalem, he did not say anything. If he recognized the man that strode with great solemnity to the cab, directing a small child with his luggage to pack it in the truck and care for his briefcase, he did not say anything. And if he had something to say about the small child struggling to tip the suitcase into his trunk while the man stood by and watched, he kept it to himself.

But for Will Henry, he was too astonished to say anything the entire time, sitting quietly in the car with eyes jumping from the rushing landscape past his window to the still figure of the doctor that sat stiffly beside him.

Gone was the wild, unkempt look that branded the doctor ever since Will had come to live with him, who always was in perpetual need of a shave and a trim. Instead in his place sat this eidolic doppelganger, a disconcerting mix of familiar and transformative. Clean trim hands tapped a lean face stark and bare without the several days’ growth of stubble that always seemed to adorn it. Though it was still a tad too long, his hair had been trimmed by no other than the boy himself hours before and swept elegantly across the doctor’s forehead, riotous curls lush and shiny from a recent wash.  

After nicking himself once, Warthrop had roused Will from his snatched bit of sleep to come and finish shaving him. The sheer absurdity of the situation flung Will to attention, jumpstarting his flagging brain to puzzle out if he had indeed heard the doctor correctly.

When the man began instructing this small boy of eleven on the finer points of shaving, Will decidedly went with the fact that he was indeed hearing things properly. He scrambled to internally jot down all the doctor said while he struggled with the very fact this grown man wanted Will to play barber to him, rather than actually going to one!

Will had carefully followed the doctor’s guidance, his larger hand guiding the boy’s unsteady one as it gently swiped away the patches of whiskers and lather. Will paused constantly, making sure to clean the razor with every use as he did not want to harm the doctor unintentionally. As soon as his cheeks were done, Warthrop had lifted his chin and continued the lesson, showing Will how to keep the skin taut and shave with the grain.

Once Will wiped the last bit of foam from his neck, the doctor got off the commode and checked the boy’s handiwork in the mirror, cocking his head and rubbing his exposed jaw. Satisfied, he plopped himself back on the toilet, handed Will the pair of scissors he used to trim his beard and asked Will to give his hair a trim as well.

Will obliged, though he wasn’t sure what the doctor meant by a trim. So he just clipped the tendrils of hair that escaped the rest of his inky hair until the doctor grunted for him to stop. He finished touching up Will’s less-than-stellar job himself, reminding Will that he’ll learn with more practice and this length was ‘acceptable’ before proceeding to lop off the curls that dangled in his eyes.

With an impatient wave of his hand, he instructed Will to get ready to leave, eat breakfast and double-check the luggage as their ride was to arrive precisely at 8 o’clock. But when the cab arrived five minutes past the designated time, Warthrop was stewing. The entire ride was conducted in silence.

In more times than he could count, Will Henry had met his father at this very same train station downtown. Now it was Will’s turn to take that trip alongside the doctor, stepping into his father’s role with a child’s intrinsic wonder.

They waited at the station and Warthrop bought the Sunday paper, immediately burying himself with the day’s news and ignoring everything else around him.

Will, however, couldn’t keep still, wiggling in his seat as he watched the few people upon the platform idly stand around, taking sips from nondescript Styrofoam cups or murmuring quietly to their companions. For a small town such as New Jerusalem, the station was tiny and deserted early in the morning save a couple of attendants here and there and their fellow passengers. But for Will, it was all seen through the rosy lenses of his very first adventure. Though Will felt the nagging guilt that he was missing school for this trip, it couldn’t get a grasp on him for too long as his excitement always quickly overrode it.

Every bit of the journey flashed itself upon Will’s memory with the instantaneousness of a camera’s flash. The shrill whistle punctuating the din. Shiny steel wheels spinning to a stop with a screech. Hopping aboard the car, its pallid breath spilling about the boy’s shoulders and out into the New England air. Picking the seat closest to the window and helping the doctor store their luggage in the overhead racks. The gentle sway and _clack, clack_ of the rails beneath his feet. How the colors beyond blurred past his eyes into a kaleidoscope of misshapen scenery. Farm houses, orchard groves, abandoned cars, livestock; all raced past in a single moment of unending awe for the small boy who before only left his hometown to visit nearby townships with his parents.

As if on cue, the rolling idyllic countryside soon morphed into another quiet town with the promptness of a magician’s snap, the budding greenery springing back into warm brick and meticulously maintained foliage. More passengers boarded, the carriage rocking with their additional weight and conversations. Another snap and the illusion reverted; the pattern repeating itself at other countless stops as they barreled through Massachusetts, Rhode Island, Connecticut and finally New York.

Upon the final act the veil was pulled, revealing the steadily growing Manhattan skyline, so infinitely small and insignificant that Will pressed his hand against it. Beneath his small fingers lay the grandest city in America where more than a million hearts searched and struggled for their dreams. Here it was beneath his hand, a galaxy of human lives concentrated and soon he would be joining them; this tiny boy that less than a couple of months ago did not realize monsters could live inside a human being and had no aspirations beyond his next baseball game or homework assignment.

In the blink of an eye the city was upon them, flashing with bursts of reflected light from multistory homes, which started out ramshackle and worn, bedecked with chain fences and graffiti like some grizzled battle-worn knight of old. Several buildings hid open sores, jagged expanses of empty lots weeping with stolid effusion of weeds and trash. Hurtling further south the homes evolved, now dressed with inherited décor and fine sprigs of greenery growing here and there, garnishing the various porches like a bachelor’s button in a well-dressed suit.

Soon they were surrounded by looming skyscrapers, their gargantuan presence tossing shadows over the tiny train as it sliced through downtown Manhattan. It was only for a fleeting moment that Will felt this peculiar feeling of something being held back, kept at bay beyond the barricade of keening metal and mirrored facades. A looming unknown just outside his range of vision with its honeyed breath promising both delight and danger.

With a gasp and a wheeze, the train collapsed upon the rails and with a series of snaps, disgorged its contents into the gilded splendor of Grand Central Station. With quick steps, Will jumped down excitedly on to the platform, eyes darting to and fro from the banquet of sight, smell and noise that feasted upon his senses.

With a grunt and a command to follow, Warthrop stepped free of the carriage and purposely began traversing the human sea, parting it like Moses with his unyielding gait and wheeled luggage rattling behind. Will immediately jogged to catch up, his backpack thumping against his back before the collapsing tide swallowed him whole.

All around muddled voices with every imaginable pitch and language rose in a swamping rush, drowning each other out with calls, whoops and the occasional whistle.  Impeccably dressed business people trotted to and fro in their subdued finery, briefcase or luggage in hand. Tourists were easily spotted as like Will, they were led around by their eyes, darting every which way before being hooked upwards by the extravagant constellations captured by Victorian hands in the delicate blue ceiling.

Entering one of the many doorways spilling out onto the main floor, Will followed the doctor as they steadily rose upwards. The doctor’s heels striked the dingy tile in a steady refrain, paying no heed to the plethora of storefronts and shops that lined their ascent to the surface with scents of warmed sandwiches and brewed coffee. Will turned his head every which way, never before seeing so many kinds of food and merchandise crammed in one place. Lining the hallway were freshly baked breads and pastries from the bakeries, newspaper stands of every size and shape with sodas and candies, as well as tchotchke shops that sold everything from NY souvenirs to racks of cheap keychains that blinked and twinkled.  

Tossing open the glass door with its brass finish polished by numerous hands before him, Warthrop exited the terminal onto the gum-strewn sidewalk. Everyone basked in the shade of a towering highway that rumbled and shook with the force of hundreds of cars zooming overhead on the concrete overpass and Will stared at its quivering underbelly in wonder. Never before had he seen bridges strung over land, much less buildings. All Will could do was gape open-mouthed at the tarnished behemoth above him as it groaned with the weight of the noonday New York traffic bearing upon its back.

A sharp whistle snapped Will’s attention from the city surrounding him and he whirled to find Warthrop scowling at him, flitting in and out of view as patrons shuffled on by. Will jogged to Warthrop’s side, his small frame jostled like detritus in a flood, bumping into New Yorkers and tourists alike.

The human tide spat him out as a bright yellow taxi swerved out of traffic and pulled up next to Warthrop, who immediately opened the door and shooed Will into the backseat. His scowl grew when the taxi driver did not leave his vehicle and left the doctor to pack the trunk himself.

“To SoHo, Wooster Street,” called the doctor as he slammed the door shut before settling back into the beaded seats.

With a grunt, the sullen taxi driver punched the dashboard computer and with a screech, cut straight back into traffic, leaving Will scrambling to catch a hold of something before he was chucked bodily onto the doctor.

“Now Will Henry, if we aren’t killed by the machinations of this apparently inept cab driver, I will reiterate how you are to compose yourself in Ms Cooper’s presence,” said Warthrop, tightening his grip around the briefcase in his lap as Will righted himself back into his seat. “She may not be a monstrumologist as she is currently working towards her Master’s but she is already renowned in her particular field of monstrumology. She has been helping us greatly with Dr Kearns’ acquisition and there is no one I trust more than Ms Cooper with keeping in line with what I expect myself from my own work.”

Will pondered the doctor’s explanation. “So she’s like you?”

“In her own way. I do not think anyone can really _be_ another person, much less someone like myself. However, the degree that she is currently working towards does not technically exist. She is aiming to be both the first recipient and professor of a newly formed Historical Monstrumology field which will also include preservation of specimens. As it stands now, those are simply a small series of outlier courses required by all seeking a Master’s.”

“So she knows all about Monstrumology?”

“More so than most, Will Henry. I wouldn’t say that she knows more than Dr von Helrung or myself but for someone without a degree, she is more competent than a majority of ‘monstrumologists’ that I have had the displeasure to call by their title. It is a blessing I have not had to do that for Walker yet,” mumbled Warthrop dryly. “That will be the day I cast my doctorate into the fire and dance upon the ashes.”

Plucking at his bottom lip, he turned to regard the passing scenery as they zig-zagged through the one-way streets clogged with fellow cabs, delivery trucks and passenger vehicles, all zipping in and out of the lanes with such precise recklessness, it left Will astounded that not one of them collided into each other. With every flash of the yellow traffic light, their driver seemed to take that as an incentive to floor it and they would barrel through the crossing, just as the tide of pedestrians would break loose into the dirty crosswalk.

Will’s head swiveled constantly as he tried to take in everything at once. The assortment of people that lined the streets stole his attention, from kids his age to street vendors draped in gauzy scarves to bicycles that wove in and out of the orange traffic cones that cordoned construction zones. Over-reaching scaffolds tended to the wounds in the sides of buildings everywhere, bedecked with workers shouting and hammering away at the weathered façade of the chimeric buildings, a hodge-podge of old and new. Trash fluttered everywhere like their living counterparts, caught on lampposts, congregating in the slushy puddles near the sewage grate or being pecked at by pigeons.

New York was the land of ‘too much’; too much people, too many buildings, too many piles of loose refuse and too much stores and cars and things to see and do. Will wondered how one could ever live in such a place and not be overwhelmed and burdened by the unending loop of everything.

With a squeal, the car veered and turned down a narrower road, this time instead of being flanked by multitudinous glass windows and screaming billboards with the undulating human mass swarming like ants, it was a neighborhood street. Brick apartments lined both sides, protected by whispery young trees and warped iron-wrought fences. Everything felt tight and compacted as if a hand compressed the buildings together until all could be fitted on the tiny narrow lane. Passenger cars dotted the edges of the street and with a jarring stop that nearly sent Will sprawling, the cab pulled into an empty space.

“That’s straight fifteen. No change. No coins.” The man didn’t even turn to address Warthrop, whose face twisted at his abrupt tone, instead staring at the doctor vacantly in the rearview mirror.

“There is no way that reckless endangerment of my and my assistant’s life amounted to anything above ten dollars,” Warthrop snapped.

“Kid’s free so you lucky I don’t charge him. Machine don’t lie. You pay or else.” The man flipped a switch and all the doors locked.

“Do you have any sort of resemblance of understanding or has the smog depleted your brain cells? I did not say I wasn’t going to pay—I’m not some blackguard. But you will drop your price to accurately reflect that terrible service you provided.”

“Ain’t doing no such thing. You are here, you are alive and you will pay me fifteen dollars. Else I’m not guaranteeing either. Then you can pay me ten bucks,” said the driver matter-of-factly with a grin filled to the brim with crooked tobacco-stained teeth.

Sneering with contempt, Warthrop slapped two bills into the man’s palm then threw himself out of the vehicle. He slammed the door shut, leaving Will behind in the car. While the driver pulled out a huge wad of bills and tucked the doctor’s addition to it, Will stepped out and waited on the uneven cobble sidewalk while Warthrop took out his suitcase and thunked it into the street. As soon as Warthrop threw the trunk shut the man sped off, earning a startled yelp and jump from the doctor. Composing himself, he shook his fist and yelled a couple of expletives at the speeding menace.

“Come, Will Henry, Aisley is expecting us and given our…driver, we are slightly earlier than expected.”

With a grunt, he walked down the street with Will trotting at his side. After a few homes, the doctor paused in front of a small three story apartment complex with a sliding glass door balcony at every floor, totaling six homes. Some had small wild gardens with their leafy occupants trailing down the rusting railing and others had some simple outdoor furniture. One even had a friendly dog that ran back and forth with delight at the visitors, barking and poking its tiny head through the bars.

Taking the few steps up the stoop, Warthrop punched in a button on a metal call box and waited. Static crackled, followed by a musical voice, friendly and bright.

“Hello? Who’s there?”

“Dr Warthrop,” answered the doctor.

“Ahhhh! Pellinore! How are you? Hold on; let me come pick you up!” She laughed. “Now it seems it’s me always picking you up instead!”

Warthrop sighed and pushed down his luggage handle. “It would seem that way. But seeing as there is no reason for you to visit me and only the other way around, it should not be construed as such.”

For some reason, that made her laugh harder.

“Oh my Boroughs! You’re still the same as ever! How we have missed you! You should visit more; you know even I don’t even get to see your esteemed company except at the Ball!” she pouted. “Ellis gets to all the time and that’s not fair.”

“I can tell you that Eleonora does not attend the Colloquium as avidly as you think she does,” scoffed Pellinore, crossing his arms as he glared at the speaker-box. “She has informed me that I am quite the bore. And to my face no less. Now will you let us in or shall we have to converse through your receiver like a couple of prison inmates?”

“Alright, alright, hold your horses, I’m coming.” The voice faded near the end but a loud _whoosh!_ crackled back over the speaker. “And don’t you wander off if I take a bit, Warthrop!”

With a grunt of assent, the doctor pressed the ‘End Call’ button and leaned against the railing, arms crossed as he waited.

Five minutes later, the ancient wooden door was yanked open to reveal a most enthusiastic and bubbly young woman. She smiled, slightly lopsided teeth adding to her charm. She turned, bestowing the full intensity of her smile upon the indifferent Doctor Warthrop.

A pair of brightly colored thick-rimmed glasses perched upon her nose, which she instantly plucked off and tucked into her shirt pocket. A paisley headscarf was tied at the nape of her neck to hold back a halo of rebellious curls that glinted in the mottled light. Though her skin was very dark, Will was able to spot a sprinkling of playful freckles splashed across her cheeks and nose. Her outfit was a simple confection: mint shirtsleeves and belted shorts. Will thought it complimented her very well.

“Pellinore!” she greeted, alighting upon the crowded stoop. “Looking dapper as always! I see you have your Warthropian scowl in place! I feel honored.”

"How do you do, Ms Cooper?"

"Oh Pellinore, you can't do that,” she protested. “Greet me properly."

“You know I do not inhibit your customary kind of public greeting.” His fingers twitched where they remained steadfastly glued to his arms.

She pouted. “Whatever you say. You come all this way but you can’t give me a proper welcome. Why do I even bother? Anyways, who’s this sweetie pie chillin’ by your side? Don’t tell me he’s one of your groupies?”

“This is Will Henry, Aisley,” stated Warthrop. He nudged the boy with his elbow.

“How do you do?” Will Henry stuck out his hand as the doctor taught him and Aisley’s eyes grew wide. Then with a laugh that twinkled like the bangles around her wrists, she snatched Will’s hand in both of hers and clasped them tightly in her warm palms.

“Oh man! How’d someone as sweet and polite as sunshine get stuck with Ol’ Sticky here?”

“He is my assistant, Aisley,” replied Warthrop testily.

“Your assistant? I thought James was your assis—“

She broke off, hands flying to her mouth. “Oh my god, you’re James’ son, aren’t you? He talks about you all the time! Why are you by Warthrop’s side and not James? He’s not sick, is he?”

She whirled towards the doctor, question writ all over her concerned face. “You’re never without him…what happened, Pellinore?”

The doctor shook his head tersely and wrapped his hands around the handle of his suitcase. “Not here, Aisley.”

“You right,” she said, holding the door open for the pair, golden eyes falling to his luggage. “So…you planning on moving in with us, doctor?”

“I have not had the time to stop by the hotel given the timetables of travel.”

“Ah, gotcha. And here I thought I’d have to break out the good silverware. But here—let me.”

With a twirl, she swooped up the doctor’s luggage in one hand and ascended the creaking staircase with its oak railing burnished to cream from years of use. The doctor followed Aisley up the twisting stairs, briefcase tucked under his arm. Will ambled after them, taking care to place his feet as the worn wood dipped in the middle and more than once, he almost tripped over his feet.

“Where is your wife?” inquired Warthrop.

“Ah, she has to pull double shifts with Adolphus. It’s gonna be like that for next couple of weeks.”

“Hmm, that is most unfortunate. I was hoping she would give some insight on any past Societal finds related to this matter.”

“Oh, don’t worry! She knew you’d want some stuff so she gave me a list for you.” Aisley laughed and wheeled Warthrop’s luggage off to the side of a stained wooden door emblazoned with a shiny brass five. She twiddled the key in the scratched up lock.

“I knew this was the precise reason I sent you my work; you both are superb in your respective fields, a quality of which I find severely lacking in today’s day and age.”

“Oh Pellinore, you know that flattery will get you nowhere with me!”

Aisley kicked open the door with her slippered feet and invited the doctor in with a sweep of her arm. “Here, make yourself comfortable. It’s kinda messy at the moment. I got a guest besides you guys.”

“A guest?” Warthrop froze in the tiny entranceway, coat halfway on the carved rack tacked to the wall.

“Yeah. I do a bit of babysitting here and there to supplement the income. Gotta, you know.” She shrugged. “It’s not like gettin’ a Master’s is cheap!”

“As long as they do not interfere what I came here for,” stated Warthrop, setting his briefcase on the kitchen bar that cordoned off the small kitchenette from the sun-drenched living room.

Ms Cooper’s home was a cheery one, with mismatched minimalist furniture of neutral hues and knick-knacks placed sporadically throughout. Hanging ivy and spider ferns hung throughout the living space, steeping the cream colored walls in lush greenery and filling the inviting space with catches of dappled light. It gave Will the feeling of being beneath the surface of a warm spring pond.

“Since you came early, I hadn’t made tea or anything. I know you don’t like sweet tea and that’s all I got in the fridge. I think I have a couple of things of Darjeeling floatin’ in here…” She trailed off, standing on her tiptoes as she rummaged through a disorderly drink cabinet filled to the brim with innumerable boxes and sachets of ground coffee, drink mix and imported tea.

“Anyways Pell, if you go between 8 and 12 tomorrow, she’ll be free to help you if you’d like. Adolphus has her cataloging all the finds from Jacob’s latest expedition so she’s been pretty unavailable. Even to me! I’m starting to think that old coot gets more time with my wife than I do!”

Warthrop had snapped open his briefcase and was organizing his latest paperwork from Kearns into separate piles.  He looked up. “Jacob’s in town?”

“Oh, yes,” responded Aisley, flicking on an electric kettle. “He had a most successful trip; I’m surprised he didn’t call you about it. If you ever catch him in a good mood, it’s all he talks about. But then again he just got back about a week ago and knowing Jacob, a month in the wilderness can only be remedied with a full week of carousing.”

“What was his expedition?”

Aisley made a face. “Screw-worm fly infestation.”

“You mean like the eradication efforts of Honduras from 1996?”

“The very same! Urgh, but apparently this go ‘round was pretty intense. Livestock and pets dropping like the very flies that were infesting them. And then it got to the lil’ kids and everything. It was almost a national emergency.”

Warthrop hummed, nodding. “I remember his first expedition to Guatemala and Belize in 1994 was what put him on the map for such purposes. Jacob is the only one that can eradicate the source while also making sure to distribute the preventive measures effectively. Where did he end up going?”

“Nicaragua. Despite the put-down efforts of the infected wildlife swarming the streets, Jacob told me that because Costa Rica still has outbreaks, it might re-infect the area if nothing is done to mitigate it. However, Honduras and El Salvador’s been able to keep it out, so here’s to hoping. He brought back a variety of infected animals and remains if that’s something you got time to check out. Though ask Ellis first. You know how Adolphus can get if you stick your nose in his shit without him organizing it first.

“Anyways, Jacob pretty much enjoyed himself. You know how he enjoys sticking close to our monstrumological roots with hunting beasts and all that. You know how upset he was when he missed that rabid coyote hunt since his conference was over there in Nigeria! With the way he hunts and scavenges all those rare creatures, you’d think he’s searching for some real monsters.”

Warthrop took Aisley’s proffered cup. “There are no monsters save those that reside inside us, Aisley.”

“Ah, there’s my ol’ stick in the mud. Let Jacob have his fun, man. You know how much all those cryptid and ghost hunters enjoy themselves even if what they look for ain’t too real. It’s always a kinda game to those guys.”

“I didn’t say he couldn’t,” retorted the doctor with a dismissive shake of his hand. “It’s needless to hunt down infected creatures to put them out of their misery and then chuck them on display in the Monstrumarium, when all we are really looking for is the creatures inside of them. All those rotten corpses taking up valuable space that could be used for more advantageous specimens regarding _human_ ailments.”

Aisley giggled, hiding her mirth behind a hand.

“You still sour ‘bout that changeover? You know it was bound to happen with the growth and outreach of the Society’s influence and the overwhelming need to include zoonosis in our areas of study. Plus you have to admit that great white Jacob bagged was pretty rad.”

Warthrop crossed his arms and lifted a brow. “Given that great white sharks of any proportion are quite rare to acquire to begin with, that is already an open-shut argument.”

“See? You’re a stick in the mud!”

“I am not. I am merely pointing out the flaw in your stance that I have any opinion on the matter.”

Aisley laughed, the sound soft and twinkling like a bell.

“I see you haven’t changed one bit, Pellinore. At least cryptozoology and monstrumology diverged onto separate paths. I don’t know how’d you survive if it didn’t since you complain about everything that doesn’t stick to your rigid definition of monstrumology.”

Warthrop huffed and began pacing the tiny path in front of the bar between the kitchen and the living room, head brushing against some of the trailing leaves from the numerous pots hanging from the ceiling. He growled, batting the offending foliage out of his way. “Can you simply take a look at what I have brought you? I would like to get started as soon as possible.”

“Gotcha. Can’t leave you hangin’ and all that,” replied Aisley with a grimace, making her way around the kitchen into the living area.

Suddenly the room rocked with a loud _BANG!_ and the _stomp, stomp_ of harried feet pounded overhead, muffled by the ceiling. It grew louder, echoing down the hall until it erupted into another loud _BANG!_

A young girl nearly flew into the room, long stringy hair and muted navy dress billowing every which way. Her bare feet thumped madly against the carpet, reminding Will of a Greek nymph tromping through the spring. She threw herself against Aisley’s leg and clamped on tightly like a monkey on a tree, looking up at the woman with big, round eyes and a grin full of missing teeth.

“Ms Aisley! Ms Aisley! Can I take Gribbles outta her cage now, _plea-se_? I did all my homework and you promised that if I did it all I can play with her! Pleasepleaseplease—”

The woman laughed, especially after casting a quick peek over at her two guests’ reactions to the boisterous girl. She plucked the girl’s hands off her leg and with a _thump!_ let her fall on her rump to the floor.

“Jeez, Jules. Your daddy’s gonna kill me if you get ‘nother bruise at my place again. How the hell were you holding on with just your arms?”

Jules popped up like a daisy and scrunching both her eyes, rolled her stained sleeves up her bony arms.

“Ain’t nothing, Miss! Been workin’ out! See these? Yeah! When daddy’s not home, I take his dummy bells and work up a real sweat!” Then with grin she balled her hands into fists and flexed, giving an exaggerated smooch to each of her nonexistent biceps. Aisley stifled a guffaw at the girl’s antics and cuffed her over the head playfully.

“As long as Mr Trevaj is there watchin’ you, I’m pretty alright with that.”

When Jules looked away a tad too quickly for her taste, Aisley put her hands on her hips and stared down sternly at the small girl, who was digging her big toe into the carpet.

“He _is_ there to make sure you drop it on your foot like last time?” she questioned, though with her slightly disapproving intonation, it sounded a bit like a command.

“Well…not the last two times,” admitted Jules reluctantly. Then she hopped up and down in agitation. “But—but Ms Aisley! They’re both too busy! And I need to train every day! Like you said! So I didn’t want to, you see! I’m good, I’m good!”

Will heard a muffled snort and glanced over at Warthrop, who seemed to have no tolerance for the girl’s exuberance or story, impatiently drumming his fingers on the countertop.

“Will Henry, would you like to see Gribbles with Jules here?” asked Aisley, catching a glimpse of the agitated doctor. “It’d help me tons and plus I think you might like Gribbles.”

“Oh, man! Don’t tell me I gotta babysit this kid!” whined Jules, eyeing Will dubiously despite being a whole half-head shorter than Will.

“Should I tell your dad you were whining?”

“Oh! No, Miss Aisley, sorry!” backpedaled Jules, vehemently shaking her head. “I’ll watch him real good! C’mon…whatever your name is. Upstairs, upstairs!”

She grabbed Will’s hand in hers and yanked him so hard that Will thought his arm was getting ripped from his socket. It probably would have, except her hand was very sweaty and his hand slipped through, leaving his poor fingers to be wrenched around.

“Hey, hurry up slowy! I haven’t got all day! My daddy’s ‘bout to come back soon and I wanna play with Gribbles!”

Will’s feet stumbled drunkenly behind him as they tripped over themselves. “I’m trying...can you stop yanking on my arm? I can walk!”

“Fine, but I ain’t coming for ya if you lock yourself in the potty or somethin’,” rebuked Jules with a huff, poking out her lower lip and snatching back her hand. With a grimace, Will wiped his hand on his trousers and followed Jules into the first room off the stair landing.

It was a simple community room adorned with tasteful black-and-white cityscape prints and with several waist level bookcases. A television sat on the middle one, containing a variety of VHS tapes while the other two contained books of various sizes and colors from paperback novels to college textbooks. A lamp stood off in the corner next to a curtained glass door leading to a balcony filled with even more plants and several potted trees.

Casting a quick glance about the room, Will found Jules in a brightly lit corner, noisily dragging an embroidered stool over to a giant glass terrarium filled with dense foliage and a couple of damp logs. A glaring aluminum light fixture was clamped above the cage, bathing it in a strong light.

“Hurry up! Jeez, what are you? A baby? Get over here if you want to play with Gribbles! Though since you’re a boy, she might bite you. I heard Gribbles hates boys.” She grinned wickedly and clicked her teeth for good measure.

“H-hey! That’s not funny. I didn’t even say I wanted to play with…with whatever Gribbles is!” protested Will, getting a bit nervous as the girl just popped open the screen top and shoved her hand inside. Whatever was in there, Will was pretty sure it wouldn’t enjoy having some little kid’s hand stuck in its home, much less its face.

“See, Gribbles loves me best! She always knows when it’s me wanting to play with her. She likes Miss Ellis too but she’s not home too much…so I guess I’m her bestie now!” Jules wiggled with excitement, keeping her arm still as something gold climbed on top of it.

“Say hi to…uhhh,” she cast a glance at Will. “What’s your name? Say hi to Gribbles!” Jules carefully pulled her hand free from the glass enclosure, right arm fully wrapped with a large golden corn snake.

Will’s eyes popped wide and he instinctively took a few steps back until he bumped against the wall.

“My name is Will Henry,” he replied meekly, eyes never leaving the creature as it proceeded to coil itself around the girl’s shoulder. It flicked its tiny tongue, tasting the air. Will hoped it wasn’t trying to figure out where he was.

“Is that thing safe?” he asked.

Jules looked offended. “Gribbles is not a thing, silly Willy.” She giggled. “That’s what you are, a silly Willy. No wonder she don’t like boys. You’re smelly and rude.”

“Am not! I didn’t even want to hang out with you! And I’m not smelly!” exclaimed Will. “You’re the one that has no shoes or anything.” Will crossed his arms, satisfied with his rebuttal.

“Nuh uh, shoes come from outside and have dirt and poo on them so you’re still the smelly one!” laughed Jules, shoulders hunched to her ears as the snake hung over her shoulders like a scarf.

“Won’t she hurt you like that?” asked Will nervously.

“Nope! She’s very nice. Here, you wanna hold her?” she asked excitedly, plucking the undulating snake off her shoulder and offering it to Will with both hands.

“Uhh, not really,” said Will, sliding away from the waving creature.

“Ohh, are you a chicken?”

“What? No! I just don’t want to touch your snake.”

Jules held out the snake invitingly as it curled about her fingers. When Will didn’t take it, she started to cluck like a chicken.

“Ok! I’ll hold it! Give it here.” Will thrust out his hands as far as he could from his body. If anything happened, the last thing he wanted was a snake to slither down his hoodie.

Bouncing upon her toes, Jules slid the snake onto Will and pried its little tail off her pinky. Will froze, holding still as the snake proceeded to wrap itself around his wrists like a pair of handcuffs, squeezy and cold. Jules snickered openly at Will’s face, his mouth pulled taut into a single grim line as he stared down at the snake in his hands. It cocked its head at Will, then nudged his thumb and flicked its tongue, the tiny sensation causing Will to giggle and relax slightly.

“See? You just hadda stop being a baby and then she’d like you!”

“Y-yeah. She feels very cold though. I didn’t know they felt that cold.”

“Haha, silly! She’s a snake, ‘course she feels cold! How ‘bout you pet her?”

Will’s head shot up at that. “Pet her? You mean like a dog?”

“Pfft, I guess. Pat her head; she lets me do that.”

Will scrunched his face. “I can’t. She’s all wrapped around my hands.”

“Oh, yeah. Here, let me.” 

Before Will could say anything, Jules started to tug a bit at the snake to loosen it off of Will’s right hand. With a couple of quick darts of her tongue, Gribbles coiled tight around Will’s other hand.

“There. Now pet her!”

Not even sure he wanted to, Will hesitated. But when he saw the avid exuberance light up the small girl’s entire body until it quivered with delight, something within him didn’t want him denying the girl her joy, even if it meant petting something he’d rather not.

Tentatively he reached out and with a single finger, prodded the small creature’s head. It bobbed with the pressure but otherwise it seemed to enjoy Will petting it. Will smiled, delighted. He looked up at the same time as Jules and their eyes met, shining in the simple joy of sharing something so marvelous together.

Until the snake bit his finger.

Will yelped, snatching his hand back. The little snake dangled from his finger comically, swinging to and fro. Jules lunged at Will, grabbing at his flailing arms.

“Hold still! Stop it, you baby!” she yelled, clutching Will’s arm. “You’ll hurt her.”

“It bit me!” cried Will, seizing up under her hands.

“I know! But if you keep doing that, you’ll hurt Gribbles more than she’s hurting you. You don’t want that, do ya? Plus she’ll not let go if you keep being mean.”

“I’m not being mean! It hurts!”

“Shh, lemme help you then.”

He held still as Jules gently cupped the dangling body in one hand and with the other, carefully pried the mouth off of Will’s finger. Will flinched as its tiny teeth scraped his skin raw. With a nudge, the snake let go and curled into a ball in Jules’ cupped hands. Jules shuffled over the terrarium, murmuring softly to the creature before gently placing her back into the cage and securing the lid.

Wordlessly, she snatched Will’s uninjured hand and dragged him to the bathroom. Will followed, sniffling as he didn’t want to be caught crying over a small snake bite. Especially in front of some girl he just met.

She ran the tap and taking hold of his hands, tried to put them under the water herself. But she was too short. So Will did it himself, trying to keep his face impassive.

As soon as the wound hit the hot stream of water, he jumped back with a cry; the cuts stung like fire and tears sprung to his eyes. Jerking the tap to cold, he thrust his hands back under to soothe the pain and wash them clean. When he was done, he dried his hands while Jules took his spot and washed her own.

“I gotta Band-Aid for ya. Gimme your hand, Will,” she said, holding hers out. Will put his hand in her damp one. With a tug, she pulled it down. Like with the snake, she murmured softly under her breath to Will.

“I’m gonna put some of this on you, ok? My daddy says it’s for germs, so you gotta have some.” She swiped a big glob of antibacterial cream on his cut.

“And now for the Band-Aid. Sorry, but it’s gotta be pink since that’s Miss Aisley’s kinda colors. But it looks pretty on you!”

With a pat she smiled and let go of Will’s hand, wiping the residue onto her wrinkled dress. Without another word she went back to the room and Will followed, quickly swiping at his eyes. Jules turned on the TV and threw herself down on the carpet, her worn dress fluttering around her bare legs.

“Here, you wanna watch a movie?” Jules crawled over to the shelving, plopped herself back down and patted the carpet next to her. “C’mon, help me pick. Else you can’t complain if you don’t like it!”

Sighing, Will sat next to Jules. He shifted and removed his backpack from his shoulders. With the weight missing, Will finally felt the soreness of his muscles from carrying around his packed bag all day.

“Ok, you can pick from these three since you’re too slow,” chirped the girl, holding up three VHS tapes for Will to pick from.

“Uh, I’m not sure.”

“Oh, c’mon. You gotta pick! I already did most of the picking for ya!”

Will looked between the three covers and shrugging, picked the one that seemed most interesting, depicting two guys riding a horse out of a jungle.

“Ohh, yes! I was hoping you’d pick that one! I love this movie—have you seen it?” she asked, popping in the tape.

“I haven’t seen much movies for now,” replied Will, pulling his knees to his chest. Ever since moving in with Dr Warthrop, Will hasn’t even watched a lick of television, much less seen the doctor do so, even for adult stuff like the news.

“Well, you’re gonna love this one!” She beamed at Will before scooting next to him. Though she sat cross-legged, she still bounced up and down as the commercials rolled across the screen, announcing some movies coming up later that year.

While the movie played, Will only paid half-attention, listening beyond the room in case the doctor called for him as he usually did, but after several scenes without so much as a “Will Henreee!” Will eased himself into fully enjoying the antics of the two men and their horse crashing through the South American jungle.

Before he knew it, Will was giggling alongside Jules, who laughed as if she never seen the movie before. Often she tugged at his rolled up hoodie sleeve, telling Will constantly “This is one of my favorite parts! Make sure you watch it, Will!” as if he wasn’t absorbed in the tale as she was.

His stomach growled and rummaging through his backpack, removed a foil packet of poptarts, which he shared with his new buddy who let out a gasp at the treat and ate it messily, dropping crumbs all over her dress.

For a little more than an hour, Will immersed himself in the story, filled with wondrous creatures and funny scenes. Even the monster in the film made it enjoyable, being of the standard big bad variety and not the kind that inhabited children’s stomachs and grew inside people’s brains. For one small moment of time, those things did not exist for Will and along with Jules, he laughed himself silly and commented on his favorite parts with her, as she did him.

“Painful, agonizing death!” she yelling, throwing her hands in the air, feet flailing and crumbs spilling.

“Nooo! Let’s just get the gold!” returned Will, smiling at the girl’s playfulness. “What would you do with all that gold though?”

“Oh, that’s mega easy!” she exclaimed, punching a button on the VCR that stopped the tape and rewound it with a loud whir. “I would get a nice house for my dad and Mr Vince and me. Then one for my meat puppets.”

Will looked horrified. “Your…your _what_?”

“Oh! These!” She crawled over to Will. Settling on her knees, she began turning out her dress pockets and foisted a bunch of small tattered dolls at Will as he juggled the tiny items in this arms.

“Look at this one! I just made him today! Isn’t he neat?” She thrust a ratty doll into Will’s face and he dropped the others in surprise.

“Hey, you dropped them!” she yelled.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to.”

“That’s ok. Here, hold onto Hairy-Handy.” She thrust the doll in his face again. Taking the object, Will looked at it while Jules gathered the rest of her dolls like a mother hen with her chicks.

It was a simple doll, floppy and squishy; it was filled with rice and made from a bit of old sock and sewn shut with crooked, tight stitching. Bits of misshapen fabric were stitched onto the front for arms and legs, knotted at the ends. It had a big smiley face drawn on with a permanent marker, the chemical scent still prevalent.

“You can have him if you want! He’s got hands like my daddy, big and hairy so he can protect you!” she said matter-of-factly. “It ain’t as if your dad can do that kinda thing.”

Will looked at Jules. “Huh?”

“Your dad? The skinny bag o’ bones with the fancy man ‘do? What? You tellin’ me he can knock a guy out?”

Will shook his head and held out the doll back to Jules. “No, not that; he isn’t my dad. He’s the doctor. Doctor Warthrop. My dad’s dead.”

Jules stared at Will for less than a second at his blunt admission before shoving Will’s hand back at him, earning a bewildered glare from the boy.

“See? You definitely need him more than I do, silly Willy!” She scooted closer, arms hugging all her dolls to her chest. “You see, my mom’s dead too. So I make all these since she taught me how to make them!”

Will looked back at the doll, held loosely in his lap. He twiddled the uneven arms before replying softly, “Thank you.”

“Yep, see, I’m very nice! Maybe I should give one to your doctor man. He looks so grumpy like he’s gotta poop or something real bad.”

Will colored. “Uhh—“

“What? I’m not right, am I? Oh man, my daddy’s got something for him if he’s been holding it in too—“

“No, no!” exclaimed Will jumping to his feet, face burning hot. “I mean—he’s not that! Not at all!”

Jules laughed. “You’re funny! What’s wrong ‘bout your doctor man pooping?”

Will whirled, bunching the hoodie around his violently red face, ears sticking out from the fabric. “Nonono—stop, Jules! I don’t want to think about that!”

Jules kept laughing, rolling on the floor on top of her abandoned dolls.

“Will Henry! _Will Henreeee_!”

The sharp call of his name, barked in that familiar ordering manner, was a welcome boon for Will, who hooked onto that summons as his lifeline ticket out of embarrassment.

“I got to go, the doctor’s calling for me,” said Will, scooping up his backpack and racing to the door.

“You think I didn’t hear that? Your doctor man yells pretty loud for a skinny guy.” Jules scooped up all her dolls and shoved them back into her pockets. She looked up and saw Will out in the hall already.

“Hey, wait for me!”

Will paused, hand on the doorjamb. “What?”

“If you gotta go, I wanna say bye to you, silly,” huffed Jules, hands on her scrawny hips.

“Oh.”

Jules brushed past a dumbfounded Will and rushed down the stairs, leaving Will trailing after her.

Will entered the kitchen area and rejoined a scowling Warthrop, his foot tapping impatiently against the carpet, briefcase repacked and ready for travel.

“Will Henry, the other child made it here before you. What were you doing?”

Will shifted his backpack more securely upon his back. “Sorry, sir. I just had to grab my things.”

Warthrop grunted then turned to Aisley, who smiled warmly at Will and the doctor. “I shall be taking my leave now. I will review your current findings and results back at the Library Hotel later tonight.”

“You aren’t hanging out at the Darwinian?”

Warthrop gave Aisley a scathing look. “And subject myself to the ramblings and obscene noises of prepubescent students and immature college _adults_ before exam season? I had to subject myself to that truly degrading style of living once and I do not plan on willingly partaking of seconds.”

“Damn Pell, you make it sound as though they’re partying it up over there, not bogged down in viscera and Latin.”

“How do you think they learn how to drink themselves senseless and brawl every year at the annual Ball?”

“You got a point there.”

While the grown-ups finished their conversation, Will heard a small zip behind him. He didn’t give it any thought until he felt something tugging on his backpack. He turned, trying to see what it was but they held on fast, so though he couldn’t tell outright, he knew who it was.

“Jules, can you let go of my backpack? You’re making it dig into my shoulders!” he whispered vehemently, keeping his voice low as not to interrupt the adults. But Jules didn’t let go immediately. 

“Why’d you got a buncha underwear in your bag? You pee yourself tons? Is that why?”

“H-hey! Don’t go digging in my stuff!” exclaimed Will, flushing with embarrassment. He twisted roughly out of the girl’s grasp and yanked his zipper closed, but it was too late: both Aisley and Warthrop had fallen silent.

Offended that Will ripped his bag from her hands, Jules crossed her arms grumpily. “I wasn’t doing no diggin’ pipsqueak. I was putting back your dolly since you left it upstairs. Anyways, your zipper was hanging open like your fly.”

Will’s hands flew to his pants.

Jules guffawed, clutching her face. “Holy moly, you fell for that? You suck at this!”

Aggravated, Will whirled on the cackling girl. “That wasn’t nice!”

“Pfft, I’m not here to be nice. I don’t know ya ‘nough to be nice.” She stuck out her tongue at Will. Then she grinned.

Will trembled with mortification. He wasn’t sure what he would have done if a hand hadn’t dropped on his shoulder, steadying his swirl of childish emotion.

“Will Henry, why would you pack your undergarments on the very top of your knapsack?” asked Warthrop.

“I didn’t know someone would be looking at them! Plus…I almost forgot. So that’s why—“ Will broke off, eying Jules and not going further when she kept grinning devilishly at him. He scooted closer to the doctor, hiding partially behind him but not completely—he didn’t want to seem like he was hiding.

Suddenly a deep thud pounded at the front door. Will flinched, but Jules jumped into the air like an excited puppy and bounded to the door.

“It’s daddy!” she yelled, ripping it open.

Framed in the dainty lavender-painted doorway as a stout hulking figure of a man, corded muscular arms folded as he waited for someone to answer the door after delivering his single, deafening knock. Short brown hair bristled against his leathery tan face complete with a short, neatly trimmed beard that did nothing to diminish his intimating appearance. It was further enhanced by the muscles bulging out of his clothing. Like Jules, his clothes were old and worn but clean and neat. At the sight of his energetic daughter hopping up and down on the balls of her bare feet, his apathetic expression softened as she tugged at his shirt, untucking it from his trousers.

“Come daddy! Meet my new friend! I gave him one of my meat puppets!”

The man let his arms fall and instantly she grabbed one of his massive hands in both of hers and hauled him through the door, tugging backwards.

Warthrop stiffened as Jules pulled her father to the pair and pointed at Will. “That’s him. His name is Willy but he’s kinda silly. I had fun with him today!”

The man grunted, eyes crinkling as he smiled at Jules. He gave her a meaty pat on the head, tousling her tangled hair, before eyeing Will critically with eerie light blue eyes that they were almost as clear as ice.

Will froze, feeling ill at ease. He felt like he was being picked apart beneath that unblinking gaze.

The man nodded, just barely. Then brought those eyes up towards Warthrop, who scowled in return. With a scoff towards the doctor, the man lumbered over to Aisley and shook her hand in one firm shake before letting go.

“Thank ya for watching Jules here,” growled the man. He pulled a crumpled wad of bills from his back pocket and thunked it on the counter.

“Ain’t no problem, man. Your girl here’s a treat as always. We practiced a bit of sign language earlier and we already had an early lunch since she said you’re gonna take her for a new haircut.”

Before her dad could respond, Jules threw herself around her dad’s leg, her cheek nestled against his thigh and ratty unlaced shoes upon her feet.

“Yes yes! I told her that I want it short like Miss Ellis! Floofy and soft!”

Cupping the back of his daughter’s head, her father nodded. “She’d been wanting that for a while here now. I told her to think on it and well, your lady looks right nice in it, so I think Jules’ll be very happy too.”

“Well, I think she’ll look so very beautiful,” said Aisley softly, handing Jules a little packet of papers. “Here though. You still have to practice your new signs until your daddy drops you off again. Next time Ellis might be here to help us out. She’s much better at this than me!”

“Ok! I’ll practice real hard, Ms Aisley! Then we can all talk in secret code and everything!”

“That’s my girl!” laughed Aisley, taking a sip of coffee from a cup off the counter.

“Let’s get going, Jules,” replied her father, his hand still on the back of her head, guiding her to the doorway. “Might be seeing you next week though. Matters on the tenants and such, but Vince and I should be heading up to Harlem. So could you take in Jules for the day?”

“I just gotta meet some ol’ stogies Wednesday morning next week so as long as it ain’t then, I should be alright.”

The man cast a surreptitious look at the doctor. He snorted derisively and pulled open the door, ushering his wiggly daughter out into the hall. “I’ll call you when Vince and I worked out the details with our folks.”

“Gotcha, Kol! You guys have fun and say hi to Vince for me. Tell him that he’s gotta show his face once in a while else I’ll forget what his mug looks like.” Aisley held up her mug in farewell.

The man shut the door with a loud _thunk!_ and as soon as Kol’s footsteps faded down the stairs, Warthrop instantly directed Will to take his briefcase and meet him at the stoop outside.

Will said goodbye to Aisley, who smiled and told him she was glad to finally meet James’ son and that he’d do him proud, being a sweet boy and all. Her praise tinted Will’s cheeks with a subtle rosy joy and he shuffled out of the apartment and down the stairs.

When he reached the landing, he heard a commotion outside the front door to the complex and peeked through the smudged glass to see what was going on. Jules’ face popped into view and Will jumped back in surprise. Then she disappeared.

“Hey Will, open the door!” she yelled, hopping up and down in the window. “I forgot to say goodbye to you!”

Fiddling with the stuck door handle, he worked it open. Barely had he opened the door when Jules threw herself against Will, knocking him back.

“Oof!” grunted Will, dropping the doctor’s case with a clatter. Jules squeezed Will so hard, he felt as if he was getting the life hugged out of him.

“Jules,” he gasped, hugging her back for a second before trying to grab back the briefcase before the doctor saw he dropped it. “I need to pick up the doctor’s case, Jules or he’ll be mad.”

With a giggle, she hopped back and snatched the valise before Will could. Then she held it out to him.

“Here ya go, Will! I won’t let Mr Grumpy Doctor Man be mad at you. He doesn’t seem like he’d be too nice when he’s mad.”

Will took the case in both hands. “He can be…loud.”

She laughed. “I think you’re bein’ nice now, Will. He’s probably really scary! Though my dad can be scary too.” Her face scrunched up. “Maybe that’s a boy thing? Will you be scary when you’re bigger?”

Will looked horrified at that. “I don’t think so. I’m kind of short…plus I don’t want to be scary.”

“I don’t either! I like ya all soft and squishy so snakes think you’re lunch.”

“Thank you…I guess.”

“See? You’re much too silly to be mean and grumpy when you grow up.”

“How about you? I think you’re sillier than me,” said Will.

She beamed. “You’ll get older than me first, silly Willy! So if you’re soft and squishy, I get to make sure I’m not like you! I’ll be tough like Ms Ellis!” She grunted and flexed her nonexistent muscles again, puffing out her cheeks.

Will couldn’t help but laugh. “Ok, I believe you. I hope I can see you again, Jules.”

“Me, too. But I gotta go now, Will. I can hear my daddy being grumpy outside.”

Will didn’t hear anything, but followed Jules outside anyway. On the sidewalk was her father, hands in pockets and standing stock-still, staring across the street. As soon as they went outside he turned, brows darkening his icy gaze. He didn’t say anything to Jules as she bounded to him but she apologized for taking too long. He nodded and looked up at Will, then nodded at him too.

With a jubilant wave, Jules shouted gleefully, “Bye bye, Will! See you later!” and Will returned the gesture. Then following her dad, she half jogged, half stumbled as she tried to walk forward and continue waving bye to Will the entire time.

Will continued to wave as she drifted away, his small hand drooping as he watched her turn away one final time, her small hands in her father’s back pocket. She laughed gaily, allowing her father to lead the way, her tiny feet rushing to catch up to his longer stride.

Something caught her eye and she shouted, pointing ahead of her before bouncing away from her father. She sprinted towards a tall sapling, where a thin man was leaning idly against it, smoking.

At the high-pitched shout, he turned. He had a single black patch over one eye, but that did nothing to diminish the brilliance of that man’s smile has he welcomed the small girl in his open arms. He flicked the cigarette away and returned her exuberant hug. Her father joined them and the other man inclined his head slightly, smile still playing upon his thin lips. Then with a hand in each of theirs, Jules began leading the way, dragging the two men after her down the street until they were mere specks, swallowed by the distant crowd.

Will continued to stare down the sparsely occupied street, the hum of the city punctuated by cars that rumbled slowly down the uneven lane. He stiffened, feeling a presence behind him.

“What are you looking at, Will Henry?” came the soft inquiry.

Will shook his head and took his place by the doctor’s side, holding tight to his briefcase in both hands.

“It’s nothing, sir.”

“Nothing? It would have been better if you watched for a cab rather than do nothing, Will Henry,” admonished the doctor.

Will looked down. “Yes, sir. I will do that next time.”

Though he could feel the doctor’s curious gaze on the back of his neck, Will kept his head down and said nothing. A moment later, the doctor’s polished Derbys stepped down the stone steps onto the concrete and Will followed. He kept by the man’s side the entire time as Warthrop lead them both towards the busy intersection where shops were but Will kept his gaze lowered even when the doctor managed to hail a cab.

Will steadfastly kept his gaze on the window and the doctor, figuring he must be enthralled with the scenery as before, turned away and called for the driver to take them to their hotel.

 

***

 

 


	16. The Golden Hilt of Broadway

Pastels blended across scraps of sky as Will and Warthrop taxied down mid-morning Broadway. Will tugged up his sleeves more than once as they slipped over his hands. It was warm and Will was glad for it. He didn't want to have to wear his dirty hoodie to the doctor's old university.

From how the doctor was currently dressed, precise and sharp as a knight’s blade with soft intricacies etched into the silk of his ebony waistcoat, to his reverent palaver of how Will should act in the vicinity of the building and its inhabitants, Will felt any less than what he was wearing now and he’d be thrown out as some vagrant imposter.

Though Warthrop had stated that he needed to get Will some 'acceptable clothing' yesterday, in his quest for snagging various items and paying calls to his various haunts all around Midtown Manhattan, Warthrop had completely forgotten about Will like a passing note forgotten in his trouser pocket.  But if Will was going to be honest with himself as well—as lying was the greatest buffoonery—it passed out of his own mind with all the novel sights spinning around him like a carousel’s gallery...though not completely.

The idea of him having to stand beside Dr Warthrop who looked every ounce the eminent doctor of a well-known society and him, the little bedraggled orphan boy with his tattered hoodie and scruffed sneakers, dirtily stamped head-to-toe like a well-traveled letter, flitted milkily beyond the edges of his vision like some cheap ghost stuck in the storefront windows reminding Will constantly of his urchin-like appearance. If the doctor, who normally forgot Will was there half the time, commented on his appearance, Will didn't want to think about what all the other people who passed him by on the street thought of him.

Will flushed, rubbing his cheek. Not to mention the doctor's friend, Ms Aisley, who was held in such high regard to the doctor and was very pretty and neat. _She_ had seen his attire.

But she hadn't said anything about it. Even Jules was dressed a tad similarly, so perhaps she didn't really care. He could only hope. After all, weren’t kids supposed to sometimes look a bit grubby?

Pulling to the curb, Warthrop paid the cab driver at their stop near Gramercy Park. Both of them exited upon the well-kept and well-worn sidewalk that opened to a large shaded courtyard planted randomly with both shrubbery and pedestrians.

The Society for the Advancement of the Science of Monstrumology was housed in a twenty-four story building not directly on Broadway like the many buildings aiming to use the lack of available space efficiently. Instead, it was set further back to give a generous allotment for the brick-laid courtyard. The building itself was nestled between the taller buildings around it and its black and gold facade was half-hidden behind copious amounts of English yew, Japanese cherry, Eastern hemlock and ginkgo.

Warthrop marched past numerous wooden benches where some students sat studying in the warm sunshine, books propped open haphazardly as they read; others were occupied by various shoppers with their wares.

The two of them came to the front entrance of the Society where several empty metal cafe tables were scattered around to their left, some already with amicable patrons plying themselves with caffeine for the day ahead. Will cast a glance up at the large building with its low relief chevron designs carved over the simple copper green awning. All floors and windows were accented by thick fluting and interspersed with dabs of the libertine green like flecks of moss.

Warthrop pulled open the glass door and Will slipped inside. Instantly, his breath was snatched away by what he saw.

The hall was grand, but not the same lavish Beaux-Arts grandiose of Grand Central with its decadent figures falling tumultuously over each other in curlicues of fig leaf and angel’s wing. Geometric marble flooring cast in obsidian beckoned towards the pair with angled bars of dog’s tooth that radiated from the few doorways that lined the ground floor. Giant potted plants dotted every few intervals with seating in-between as the doctor made his way to a large open-air bar that dominated the end of the long hallway.

To Will's left was a restaurant that had a few patrons eating breakfast inside, its slightly tinted windows giving them a sense of both privacy and coziness. To Will's right was an exhibition hall with floor to ceiling windows, several obscured with colorful banners advertising an exhibit for _Professor Youyou Tu: The Discovery of Artemisinin and the Role of Parasitic Diseases_ , which despite the bright colors, did so with utmost taste and professionalism.

Both the exhibition hall and the restaurant spanned to the upper floor where a gilded balcony ran along the entire open area, serpentine and glistening as frolicking light spilled forth from a collection of small angled windows set into the ceiling. Several chandeliers hung down at varying lengths and states of ornate dress like dainty Victorian ladies.  

Tossing a quick glance over his shoulder, Warthrop caught Will gawking like a child at his first Christmas and barked for him to follow. Startled eyes jumped to him and without another glance, Warthrop continued down the Front Entry and into the large bar area. The pair picked their way around the obscene amount of leather armchairs, tables, loveseats and potted plants, every inch of the room as cozy as any fine gentlemen's club. Their steps were muffled by lush red carpeting and Will caught up with the doctor, his shuffling gait out of place in comparison with the hushed timbre of Warthrop’s own stride.

Unexpectedly, Warthrop felt a hesitant tug at his sleeve and when he looked down, a slightly flushed face of the little boy stared back with round eyes.

"Sir? What was that back there? On the ceiling?" asked Will, voice whispery and serrated.

The doctor turned slightly, eyes flicking past the elongated light fixtures towards the massive reptilian assemblage that sidled in-between them, suspended by taut wire like a grotesque puppet. Warthrop cracked a smile that eerily resembled the one floating above, all teeth and sharp jutting jaw.

"That, Will Henry, is a Titanaboa; one of the rarest of fossils that have yet to be found in its entirety and is believed to have the capacity to grow up to 49 feet in length," he said, watching Will cast an awed yet disbelieving glance towards the gigantic snake skeleton. His eyes darted around the cavernous jaw and he shut his mouth, swallowing.

"It's not the whole thing? Then how do they have all of that?"

"Research, Will Henry. Snake skulls are quite delicate and millions of years in ever changing tropical climes isn’t conducive to preserving such bone material. Despite what they teach you in school, bone is not just hard calcium compounds but cartilage as well—it’s what allowed and still allows snakes to envelop prey greater than the size of their own bodies.” He nodded upwards towards the chimera of plaster and fossilized remains. “That one is cast according to the approximations of what fellow scientists hypothesize it to be."

"Oh. So is that the same for those up there?" asked Will, pointing up at the paneled decorative ceiling where another gigantean skeleton swam above them, chasing smaller oceanic skeletons that resembled dolphins or whales.

"Not quite. That's a plesiosaur; not as rare and much more studied." Warthrop made a face before spinning back around, tossing his hand back dismissively. "Some hare-brained scientist donated his collection as a gift, still believing our profession hunts monsters. Claimed it to be related to Nessie, of all things."

"You mean...monstrumologists actually used to _hunt_ monsters?" breathed Will, not believing what he heard, considering Warthrop had relayed over and over that such things didn’t exist.

Warthrop sneered at some student who perked up at Will's breathy exclamation and they instantly hid themselves back behind their textbook.

"Before the Society burned down, that was apparently almost all they studied, though I will relent that their definition of ‘monster’ was broad enough to include both the logical and fantastical—after all, some of the parasites we have extensive knowledge on were studies from past monstrumologists.” He paused, eyes sliding over the room of students before fixing back onto Will.

“Science has not always been on the right path in regards to its ambitions or studies: alchemy and humoralism are old sciences that proved to be nothing more than a hoax that many people touted as fact. Most others have been misled or followed more fallacious routes, and that would be the case with early monstrumology: chasing after creatures as corporal as a Will o' the Wisp when all it was fueled by the era's fascination with dinosaurs, rare sightings of unknown animals and the ever human fear of things unknown that have an unfortunate taste for our flesh. Like I said, Will Henry; the definition of monster is a very amorphic one. Whereas some Victorian monstrumologists were out studying parasitic diseases, others threw their hat into a ring made with no more than pixie dust."

He cast his gaze up at the monstrous remains above them. "And some spent their entire lives researching monsters that no longer exist..." Warthrop plucked at his lip, gaze still riveted upon the ancient creature. He hummed to himself.

"A terribly embarrassing spectacle…it astounds me that Philadelphia still puts his skull on display..."

"Why? Feeling like joining him one day, Warthrop?"

The doctor snapped out of his musings and spun around, nearly colliding into a stylish young man leaning sideways upon a red leather wingback chair. His lilting grey-green eyes laughed merrily, his hearty laughter contained in his broad chest like finely cured whiskey. A cut crystal glass lingered idly from fingers that gleamed with blood-red sparks from a signet ring that stood guard upon his ring finger.

Though completely and utterly immaculate for nine in the morning, his dress-sleeves were the only thing not so, rolled past his muscular forearm and twisted about his biceps like brands. Otherwise, everything from his highly polished oxfords to his exceptionally creased dark grey trousers to his gelled hair swept decadently to the side was perfectly groomed; a study in contrast to the doctor's, which though also swept back from his lean and angular face, seemed constrained by pure luck, its ends curling about his neck and ears like the idle fingers of children.

"What are you insinuating, Jacob?" The doctor's eyes flicked towards the man's glass as he twirled it, amber liquid glowing dangerously through the crystal. "And it is nine in the morning," he added, with a note of distaste.

The man just smiled and tipped the liquid back with a single swallow, teeth and ice clinking against the crystal. He tipped his empty glass towards Warthrop.

"I see you are as sharp as ever, Warthrop. Glad to see you haven't been moldering away all this time; keeping that obtuse noggin of yours sharp as wolf’s teeth.” He grinned, his own bright against his full lips. “I missed you on our little adventures. You’ve been missing out."

He strolled over to the bar and thunked his glass on the countertop before signaling to the bartender for a top-up. Warthrop's impassive mien twisted with disapproval at the splash of alcohol that refilled his glass.

"Oh pooh, Warthrop, quit scowling at me like you're my mother. You'd be drinking too if you got my scrumptious line-up ahead for the day. As for insinuating, I am insinuating nothing. We all know you want your name littered in books, perhaps with a shiny plaque or two so you can replace all the mirrors in your house.”

At Warthrop’s pinched face, Jacob snorted. “Don’t even try to deny it—I was there when you threw a fit after they misspelled your middle name on that journal, remember? But even you have to admit having your preserved head on display for generations to ogle at...no man could top the infamy of that. Much better than some stuffy ol’ picture that anybody can have, am I right?"

Warthrop's fingers twitched. "Only fools put their heads on display, Torrance. Fools and murderers. Plus despite his contributions, Cope was a fool in the end, squandering his money on hunting heaps of dirty bones like a dog through the rubbish heap."

Torrance shrugged, took a sip of his drink and twiddled the end of his neatly trimmed moustache. "Well, he _is_ remembered.”

Warthrop huffed and made his way to the empty countertop, all the other patrons having ensconced themselves in the comfortable living area style seating, some with tables cluttered with books and papers that bespoke of a long studious night or day yet-to-come. He laid his valise on counter and slid into a stool next to Torrance. With an irritated glance over towards Will, Warthrop waved the bartender over and asked for a pot of tea. Another glance at Will making his way to them, he amended his original order to include the boy.

With a curt nod, the tailored barkeep snapped his fingers towards a young woman and set her to work filling a fluted class with orange juice. Will climbed into the seat next to the doctor and happily took a sip of the cold drink, poking the ice cubes with his straw. Next to him, the doctor was stirring his freshly brewed tea, already deep into conversation with Torrance.

"Shorter eradication time?"

"More or less. There were more affected areas but my crew wasn't a complete shit-for-brains, so everything turned up roses."

"I take it Walker didn't affix himself like a leech this time to your trip?"

Jacob looked horrified. "Oh Jesus Christ no. Man can't handle the sight of blood, much less a handful of maggots eating their way through flesh and tissue. Upchucked right on my goddamn boots that last time. Oh hell no, Warthrop, never again."

Jacob tinked the ice in his glass, watching the ice spark in the morning light. Then with a smirk, he looked back up at Warthrop. "Did you know he got his doctorate?" he asked casually as if it was of no import.

Warthrop seized up as if he just took a swing of soured milk. " _What?"_

"You just missed him if you were looking to extend your heartfelt congrats. Took the first flight he could get his little sweaty paws on and is probably toasting himself back in England and everything. Apparently we American bumpkins were not—ah, what's the word— _civilized_ enough for him to celebrate with."

Warthrop pulled back, disgusted, cup clasped in both hands.  Jacob laughed outright, thumping him hard in the shoulder.

"For fuck's sake, Warthrop, it wasn't like I would've accepted...though it might be intriguing to see him roaring drunk again. I do hold onto that memory of him making a pass at that actress."

"The British TV actress that he lured over here by dropping hints about some star or the young, up-and-coming one?"

"Hell, both! I forgot about that British one! God, her face when she realized that it wasn't his Stephen Fry but OUR Stephen Fry he canoodled her into seeing!" Jacob leaned back in his barstool, arm hanging over the edge.

"What a night," he sighed, grin playing beneath his moustache. "And a waste of perfectly good champagne all in that bastard's hair! But it was worth it for the ass-kicking Solo decided to dash out."

Warthrop snorted into his tea. "You mean Walker's or yours?"

"Hey, man, don't lump me in with Walker; that's perfectly insulting," stated Jacob, looking affronted. "I earned my ass-kicking doing something perfectly respectable and manly. Walker just tried to wheedle some poor girl that clearly didn't want him anywhere near her."

"If you call tripping Walker into the three punch bowls while he stormed off 'respectable and manly', it's no wonder you had a gouge in your leg from her heel, Torrance."

"Details, Warthrop, minor details."

"You bled through your entire pant-leg.”

"I like to think of it as a battle wound. What is more gloriously terrifying than our esteemed Commander of Finances?"

Warthrop rolled his eyes. "A variety of creatures come to mind but I'm not wasting my breath here. I, for one, do not find her scary in the least."

"Oh ho! You should give her the ol' ring-a-ding-ding then. She's been wondering about you apparently." For some reason Jacob looked a bit perturbed about it, frowning at the signet ring on his hand.

Warthrop flicked a glance at Will, who was trying to slurp the remnants of his orange juice discretely but failed, given the doctor's raised brow. He turned back to Jacob.

"What do you mean, she's wondering about me? If you are implying—"

Jacob sputtered then glared. "What the fuck, Warthrop? Don't put nasty thoughts in my head."

Warthrop smiled but it was more teeth than anything else. "Not my fault, Torrance. You need to elaborate more."

"Hell's bells," he muttered, wiping his lips with a serviette. "Apparently you called her or something and given that Von Helrung made a personal trip with John to your place, she's been right curious about you. You know how she is."

"Ah."

Jacob swept his napkin aside with his hand. "That's all you got to say? I know you got more than that, if your lectures are anything to go by."

Warthrop threw Jacob a scathing look. "Only when necessary and considering this concerns Dr Solowit and not you, then it is succinct enough."

Jacob snorted. "It's not like I can't figure it out man." He looked pointedly at Will Henry, who was bored and fiddling with a napkin. "The great Dr Pellinore Warthrop hanging out with some kid. A most unusual sight; I feel compelled to take some pictures so rare is the occasion."

"Do shut up, Torrance."

Jacob tapped his glass against the countertop, the barkeep immediately refilling it from a glass decanter. "That is quite rude to Will Henry here. ‘Tis something to be celebrated, don't you think? Dr Warthrop finally getting shackled...even if it's to a kid!"

"What sort of nonsense are you spouting?" snapped Warthrop. "And how in the world did you know this was James' child?"

Jacob paused in his drinking, casting Warthrop a disbelieving glance. "What? Kid's practically a spitting image of his father, except for those big ol' eyes and that hair. But yeah, heard it all from John."

Warthrop said nothing but swiveled in his seat, the action much like a schoolboy not keen on his teacher’s response. He immediately began preparing himself another cup of tea, pouring from the small teapot left by the barkeeper.

"Wow, be a grump, will ya? Sheesh. But is it true that you're—"

"Stop," Warthrop cut in, turning abruptly. "That is none of anyone's business, much less John's, though he offered quite...kindly and without consulting me in the least. But it currently does not involve him at all, nor will it ever. This is between myself, von Helrung and Emily."

The playful demeanor fell away from the other man's chiseled face, replaced with a seasoned gambler’s impassivity. He looked bored but the gleam in his strong and soulful eyes flicked over to the boy who had begun to doodle on the napkin, the female barkeep having taken pity and given him something to do. He shrugged and leaned down on the countertop, tucking his arms in.

"So what are you here for anyway? It's not like you to be chilling around exam time when all the students are high-strung and cramming for exams and papers."

Warthrop leaned back in his chair, looking over at Will's doodle-ridden napkin. Sighing, he unlocked his valise, fingers pecking open the shiny clasps.

"I need to see Dr Penham. She has some sources for my latest acquisition and I hope prepare it to the point where it can be entered for this year’s Colloquium. That, along with James' work as well." Warthrop removed a small reporter's pad and tossed it over to Will, the sudden appearance of the cheap pad startling the boy out of his random doodling.

"Here, use that," grunted the doctor before turning back to Jacob, who whistled at Warthrop's admission.

"Two proposals? Are you trying to show the rest of us up? Damn man, you're going to make me look like a lazy sod if I can't get all my papers in order about this whole screw-fly infestation. Nothing exciting really, so there's no hurry. God, what I would do for some real exciting topics this year. I wouldn't stand it if there’s a repeat performance in the fall too." Jacob thrust his half-empty glass away from him, fingers beating an agitated tempo against the obsidian countertop.

"Repeat perfor—" Warthrop halted, swinging his head towards the sullen Jacob. "You mean you got drawn this year?"

"Drawn and quartered like a bloody heretic," pouted Torrance, fingers drumming with a battle's pace. "Not only is my panel utter rubbish with the exception of von Helrung, but the presentation line-up is balls. God, what I wouldn't give up to have it next year because then at least that Verne girl is in on it."

Torrance glanced up, his close-set eyes alight with query, yet looked downright angry under his brows. "Did you know she's researching urban parasitic threats? And basically doing field work for it here in NYC? Damn, we need more people like her instead of our usual couch stuffers."

Warthrop nodded. "Isn’t that Wittgenstein’s protégé? And you say she’s conducting her research here? That is intriguing…So who else is on your line-up then? I take it Walker isn't part of the bunch."

“God no; I haven’t angered anybody that much yet to warrant that. Nah man, I got Piaget, Apichet, von Helrung..." he waved his three fingers in the air as he thought aloud. "Oh and some dude from Somalia. I've never heard of him or laid eyes on the fella, so he's pretty much one of our S.S.O.—I don't know; haven't asked."

Warthrop hummed distractedly at that. "I don't know of a Somalian either...so he must be new. In any case, will you inform me whether or not he is of any import?"

Jacob straightened in his seat and dusted himself absentmindedly before settling back with an attitude Will could only describe as moody.

"He'd damn well better be if I gotta hang with him in an empty lecture hall for hours.”

Suddenly Torrance surged up from his slouchy posture. “Did you know that Dr Solowit was supposed to be on the panel? Her and not the Somalian. But since Dr von Helrung was picked, she made the case that it would be unfair to the graduating class this year to have both the higher-ups on their panel. Balls. Why couldn't have von Helrung gone off instead?"

"Perhaps he was picked first? A logical explanation."

Jacob said nothing but glared at Warthrop.

"Besides, if you are correct in your evaluation that this year's classes' proposals are severely lacking, then it is most fortunate that Dr Solowit is not on the panel. Else we might have a graduation class of absolute zero."

Ruckus laughter erupted from Torrance, earning him several irritated glares from the students in the hall.

"Right you are, you balmy bastard! But you have to admit that would be fun. Piaget with his greasy eyes, Apichet scribbling away on that doodle pad of hers, Von Helrung trying to restore order while Solo just laying it thick with her critiques...now that would have been one hell of a panel," sighed Jacob wistfully. “Remember when she told Rosewood that staring at a beige wall in the DMV was more interesting than his entire year’s worth of research? Poor kid almost cried.”

Warthrop snorted and pushed both his and Will's cups into a pile before standing.

"Precisely why she removed herself from the panel. She has more foresight than half the certified scientists out there. One would think you like mayhem, Torrance." He leveled a look at Jacob, who grinned in response.

"You know me well, Warthrop! Anyways, I better get going too; panel's at two and I need to make sure I'm in tip-top shape to be judging mediocre thesis reports."

"You mean napping and perhaps a binge of daily vices?"

"Absolutely. I’m a monstrumologist after all," replied Torrance matter-of-factly. Then he stretched his arms behind his head with an exaggerated sigh of contentment.

"Well I'm off, old boy. Still don't think I haven't forgotten my promise to reach thirty and blow your pathetic party out of the water!"

"That’s three years away, Torrance. And if you're already thinking about that, then you surely need to find something more productive to occupy your time."

Jacob laughed, teeth flashing as he flipped his finger at Warthrop. "Oh, you think I don't? See you whenever, Warthrop! And try not to plonk yourself in shit next time!"

Before Warthrop could say anything in response, Jacob left through one of the many gilded side doors at the end of the Grand Hall, the glass settling shut with a silent press of the iridescent brass.

 

***

 

In order to access the main venue of the Society, one had to enter through the main entrance in the rear of the building where only issued cards granted admittance. Doctor Warthrop and Will Henry took one of the flanking rosewood doors in the Grand Hall off to the side of its more engraved and opulent cousin that nestled beneath the Grand Hall’s staircase.

Unlike the larger door, this one had a small security box on the side which allowed them entry once the doctor pressed his wallet against the plastic casing and it beeped gaily in response. The doors lead to a small hallway filled with oil paintings on their right and deep-set windows on their left.

Pushing open the double-doors at the other end, they entered the Monstrumologist’s Hall where only current and past students attended to the upper and lower floors that housed the classrooms, library, Monstrumarium and office spaces. It resembled the pedestrian entrance they had entered an hour before but unlike the over-exuberant Art Deco trappings of the Front Entry, this was awash in light that filtered in from two-story floor-to-ceiling windows set in clean slashes of midnight black. Glimmers shone like stars upon the rivulets of quartz embedded in the shaded marble. Also, like its Grand Hall counterpart, the Monstrumologist’s Hall had two sweeping winged staircases enveloping the entry way.

Before Will could take in more of the surroundings, he was ushered down a hidden staircase beneath the main ones that lead to the 2nd floor balcony. Cold air blasted Will’s countenance, the air snatching the warmth like a pinched tax-collector taking his due. Will shivered and crossed his arms, hustling behind the doctor in an effort to warm himself back up.

When they escaped the enclosed concrete stairwell, they emerged onto the end of a hallway, large and bright with cream and blue accents. A similar marked staircase sat across the way, hidden behind a door like the one they just exited. It was very clean and sterile like a hospital, though the strident scent of cleaner and latex was notably absent.

Turning down the main hallway, they marched past black, grey and white doors labelled in a variety of uses: _Conference Room, Meeting Room, Restrooms_. At the far end of the long thoroughfare were another set of rosewood double-doors secured with the same security box. Waving his wallet at the device with a jerky flick, the door tittered open and the pair made their way inside the space labeled: _The Monstrumarium_ \- _Maintained and Upheld_ _by Dr Adolphus Ainesworth_ ; underneath, _Dr Eleonora Penham_.

“Will Henry, you are to sit quietly in those seats over there,” the doctor directed with a jab of his finger towards a set of twelve black plastic chairs bound in sets of three. At the very far end of one row sat another kid, back turned towards them as they sat sideways in the stiff chair, one shoulder learning against the back.

“Dr Ainesworth does not abide children in his presence, much less in his domain of the Monstrumarium,” the doctor continued. “He does have a particular disdain for everyone mind you, but children more so. I’ll be back once I’ve discovered our schedule for the day.”

Will Henry dutifully went to one of the chairs. Warthrop knocked once upon the first office door. Before he even lifted his fist off the wood, a voice barked at him.

“Come inside, and then leave me alone! And hurry up, too—I haven’t got all day!”

Quickly Warthrop entered the dimly lit interior, lest the invitation be withdrawn. A cheap ‘Do Not Enter’ sign clapped twice against the door as it clicked shut.

Swinging his feet in tune with the thrum of his pulse humming throughout his body, Will sat on the very edge of the hard plastic seat, looking around the medium-sized antechamber. Several other office doors flanked across the way, all similar in appearance save one a bit friendlier than the one Warthrop disappeared into.

Will squinted and read _Dr Eleonora Penham_ upon the generic grey plaque, which had been decorated with a random assortment of what seemed to be the stickers stuck to oranges at the grocery store. Besides those, a few Easter cards taped around the plaque were the only things keeping it from being bare.

Will fiddled with the notebook in his hands. He was bored. Besides the small amount of decoration around Penham’s door and the twelve chairs, the entire antechamber looked no different than the hallway they had just exited.

Pulling free the ballpoint from the notebook’s spiral, Will returned to his doodle of some monster thing he was drawing at the bar. It was supposed to be the giant plesiosaur skeleton. He had really liked it and wanted to draw a picture of it to show Malachi, but he had thought it looked more like a child’s scribble of a long-necked turtle. Frustrated, he had thrown on some claws and spikes to transmogrify it into something more frightening than some turtle.

Currently his creature needed a background, since Malachi would probably ask him where it lived and what it ate. So after drawing a few tiny houses and trees (after all, it was a monster), Will poked the side of his lips with the pen, thoughtfully wondering what else would make it nice. Now that he worked pretty hard on the art, he wanted to give it to his friend instead of just showing it to him.

Remembering what his art teacher showed him a couple of weeks ago about shading, Will scratched in a couple of shadows on the underbelly of the multi-legged creature as well as under each of its scissor-sharp claws. Though shading with a pen was nothing like shading with a pencil, Will was glad to note that he could pass of the more scribbly blobs of lines as blood.

Gleefully entrenched in his artwork, it took a while for Will to register the prickling of awareness across the back of his neck, a ghosting breath of something hovering just outside his range of vision. Startled, Will shot out of his seat like a doe from the brush, long limbs scrambling as he fell to the ground.

His foraged breaths brushing the air, Will peered through the thicket of his cast-out hands. A pair of moth-black eyes hung, suspended above him as they flit over his prone form.

Noticing it was only the boy from before, Will relaxed slightly, legs still hung askew across the top of his chair.

A slight twist marred the boy’s ample lips before he crawled half into Will’s vacated chair. His small hands clawed around the edge of the seat and bending forward, fixed his gaze upon Will like a panther from the boughs.

“Why’d you do that?”

Will did not reply, breaths still pacing the air between them.

The boy grinned, mouth half full of teeth and half full of amused concern. “Did I scare you?” he tried instead. Like his animalistic counterpart, his short cropped hair was charcoal-black and sleek, not a hair out of place even as it hid both his forehead and tips of his ears.

Will’s breath hitched before indignation rained lightly throughout his blood. He frowned.

“Yeah, you did. Why’d you do that?” Will asked, volleying the former question back at the other boy.

A gleam entered his eyes like sparks upon shale. “I didn’t do anything. You did all that yourself. I was just looking.”

Will’s face scrunched. “Looking at what?”

The boy sat back on his hunches, eyes not once leaving Will. “Your drawing. It’s pretty good for a little guy like you. I thought it was a bit more interesting than what I’m used to at my school.”

Bristling, Will sat up and snatched his notebook from where it lay on the floor. “I’m not little,” he said, loosening his gaze from the boy’s. He mumbled. “You’re the one that’s little.”

“Am not! Don’t you pay attention to yourself? Or is that why you fell over like a sack of potatoes?” The boy hopped off the seat and began grabbing at Will’s arm. “Here, up! I wanna see if you’re a wee shrimp like I said.”

“Hey, stop! I’ll get up myself!” cried Will, yanking his arm back and hutching in on himself.

“You whine a lot for a kid.”

“I do not! Plus even if I do—which I don’t—you’re being annoying!”

“See? There you go whining some more! Told you!”

Will’s mouth snapped shut. He stood rigidly off to the side as the other boy prowled around him, hands in an absurd parody of how the doctor often paced when examined something of import or interest. It felt incredibly bizarre as the boy’s eyes narrowed similar to the doctor’s when he spied the notebook peeking from the cage of Will’s hands. Then like a hammer striking metal into coin, the boy jumped straight and pressed himself next to Will, back to back.

“See! I am taller than you!”

Snapping free of the weird trance he found himself under, Will twisted his head.

“We’re the same height,” retorted Will. He waved a hand over their heads like the other boy had done. “Actually I think I’m a bit taller because yours is mostly hair. That doesn’t count.”

That remarked seemed to set the other boy into an inner fit, constrained by his angered set of snorts and huffs. Then without another word, he flounced off and sat in Will’s old seat, arms crossed and a surly crinkle to his snub nose.

“Whatever. At least I’m a better drawer than you…” He trailed off and looked up at Will. “What’s your name anyway? You haven’t told me.” His soft face twisted at the lips like a wrung out towel, as if Will was being rude on purpose.

Will felt like sticking his tongue out at the other child in response. But he was a very responsible boy and he ignored the urge. Sighing, he went to tuck his notebook in his jacket pocket.

“I’m Will Henry,” he said distractedly, as he realized he didn’t have a pocket since he didn’t have his jacket. Luckily, the notebook was tiny enough to stash in his back pocket like the doctor’s wallet, so there it went.

“That’s a weird name. But isn’t that what you Americans all do? Have two names? Like Billy Bob or Jack Russell?”

The more the other kid talked, the more Will wanted the doctor to pop right back out of the door and take him from away this place. Even if that meant doing some sort of tedious work or hours of lecture about things he could only half-comprehend.

“No, Henry is my last name. It’s just what the doctor calls me,” said Will evenly. He was steadfastly ignoring the boy patting the seat next to him. “What’s your name?”

“Liane. Liane Kyew.”

“Isn’t that two names too?” Then Will looked at Liane with a twinge of confusion. “Also, why do you have a girl’s name?”

It was as if Will just said something nasty to their face. Liane surged upwards, red-faced, their entire being sharpened knife-like around the edges as they stabbed into Will’s personal space.

“I have a girl’s name,” they intoned, teeth sliding from their sheaths, “because I am a girl. You really are a big blind idiot, aren’t you? And it’s not Lee Anne, like _your_ stupid hillbilly cousins. It’s L-i-a-n-e. Get it right next time, you hear?”

Will held his ground but quivered visibly from trying to hold himself as far away from the dense pack of anger seething in front of him.

“I-I’m sorry,” he said, “I didn’t know.”

“Well don’t assume, you ass, unless you have enough brains to figure it out yourself.” With a whirl, she threw herself back into Will’s chair, legs spread and jabbed a finger at the seat next to her.

Feeling awkward at being chastised thoroughly by some girl his age, Will meekly sat on the edge of the chair, hands clasped tightly in his lap.

Liane huffed and puffed next to him, slunk into her chair like an agitated cat. Not wanting to say anything more to the temperamental girl, Will just fiddled with his hands for a while before working up the courage to return to his doodle pad. He didn’t want the girl nosing around again but his ennui and desire to finish his drawing won out. Not more than five minutes later, however, he could feel the girl’s curious gaze back upon him like the press of a thousand eyes rather than the pair.

Willing himself to ignore her (after all, he was used to the long stares of both Dr Kearns and Warthrop), he scribbled more shadows into his monster, though his growing agitation made him press too hard into the thin paper. Now instead of soft shadows, his monster was more than covered in trails of blood. It was positively drenched.

Will grit his teeth; he’ll tell Malachi that it had just trampled a whole village to death. But first—

“Why do you keep staring at me?” Will asked crossly, rounding on the young girl. Instead of jolting, she just grinned idly. It infuriated Will even more.

“It’s rude you know, so stop it!”

Her grin turned to a self-satisfied smirk. “And yelling at girls is just as rude,” she countered.

If this was how girls his age acted, no wonder his baseball buddies never wanted anything to do with them. Will snapped his book shut. Then he shoved himself into the next seat. Then he moved down another, just for good measure.

“There! Now you can’t be rude to me and try to look at my stuff. Just stay over there, since you apparently think I’m rude to you too.”

“I already saw your drawing, you know,” she laughed. “Twice already.”

“Well, not anymore! And if you already saw it, there’s no reason to see it again.”

“But it was really good. I take art too, so I know good art when I see it. Most kids just draw stick people and you draw monsters. I like monsters, though girls aren’t _supposed_ to like monsters. That’s just stupid. My mum studies monsters so that means one day I can too!”

At that, Will cast a wary look over at Liane. “Your mom studies monsters? You mean like the doctor?”

“Well, I have no idea what you mean by ‘the doctor’ but my mum studies these things called parasites and they eat people from the inside! Gross, isn’t it? But it’s so cool! Once she pulled out this long white worm from her patient’s leg like a strand of spaghetti!”

Will’s stomach flopped once. “Yeah, that’s what Dr Warthrop studies too.”

“Dr Warthrop? You mean, _the_ Doctor Pellinore Warthrop?” Her voice took on a shrill excited quality, much like Lizzy’s always seemed to do when she pored over her pop magazines.

“Yeah, that’s him.”

Liane looked at him weird. Then she scooted right over to Will, staring him up and down again. It made him extremely uncomfortable. He fought the urge to move to the furthest seat away since that seemed rude.

“Why are you here then? Dr Warthrop is infamous for hating little kids. Are you someone else’s kid? I’m surprised he’s even watching you! Well, I guess I’m more surprised you are here in one piece from what I hear. I heard he can get crazy angry real fast.”

Will flushed. But what she had said piqued his interest, even if her assessment of Doctor Warthrop seemed a bit…harsh. For some reason, just like his overwhelming desire to hear more about his father and the life he lead in secret from Will, he found a growing urge to hear more about the mysterious and taciturn doctor that had taken him in.

“Well, I’m…” Will didn’t feel like divulging the truth to this girl who made him feel slightly ill-at-ease, but he didn’t want to lie either. So he decided to pick a certain truth instead.

“Yes, you’re right. He’s watching me here in New York. It’s my first time here.” Will sat up firmly as he seen the doctor do when addressing his friends or Officer Morgan. He rather hoped it prevented her from asking any more probing questions he didn’t want to answer.

“Oh, huh. That makes sense but still, it doesn’t.” Then she shrugged. “But whatever, it’s not like I know the guy. My mum kinda does but mostly through what we read in the periodicals and magazines since they both research the same thing. But she says his writing is as dry as toast and that her stuff is lo—ads better. I agree because his stuff makes my head hurt since it’s so boring.”

Having read what seemed like piles upon piles of his stuff, Will understood exactly what she meant. He snorted into his hand.

“So can I see your drawing?”

Will started, but seeing as she already saw some of his art and said some nice things about it already, he acquiesced. “Sure,” he replied, giving her the notebook. But as her hand touched it, he snatched it back, remembering something.

“Wait. You can look at it as long as you promise not to make fun of anything…I don’t draw too much. I’m more of a writer.”

Liane rolled her eyes. “Sure, ok. I won’t.”

“You promise?”

“Yes! Now can I see?”

Reluctantly Will handed her the book and with eager fingers, Liane tore past all the blank pages in the front, finding Will’s few drawings in the very back of the little reporter’s notebook. A few pages had some idle doodles and random thoughts of things Will wanted to remember from his trip around New York; Liane’s eyes devoured every single one, doodles and musings alike.

She looked at them all very quickly before reaching the last page, which gave her slight pause. Her eyes darted around the tightly scrawled jumble of words scribbled there. Then with a quick glance up at Will, whose face was fixed upon his tightly bound hands, she returned back to the former notes and sketches, paying apt attention to them all equally.

“I really like your lines on all your drawings,” she commented, pointing at a few. She smiled wide when the boy’s head snapped up like a bird at a proffered crumb.

“My lines?”

“What else do you think that’s supposed to mean? Yes, your lines, you dork. It’s pretty cool that you drew all these in pen, rather than pencil since you can’t erase with pen.”

Twin spots of color ran across his freckled cheeks and abashed, Will rubbed the back of his head. “Well, that’s because all I had was a pen. It’s nothing special.”

Liane shrugged. “If you think so. Most people don’t like drawing in pen, so I think it’s neat. But it doesn’t matter what other people think, right?”

Will frowned, puzzled over her statement. “Huh?”

A smug look stole across the girl’s face and she reclined back in her seat. “Oh, are you one of those kids that always want to please everybody?”

When Will’s frown twisted sharply, Liane guffawed and elbowed him hard in the arm.

“Aha! I knew it! You know that’s gonna get you one day. You should only listen to yourself and what you want!” she said with a tinge of superiority. “It’s what I do. And plus my mum’s pretty amazing and lets me try out a bunch of things. Did you know she lets me sing _and_ fight? Yup, me! A girl! I’m gonna get married real fast because I’m gonna be such a catch.” She nodded smugly before humming in contentment to herself, no longer paying any attention to Will.

 _Just as well_ , Will thought. _It’s not like I want to keep talking to her anyways._

He looked down at his small notebook, not wanting to work in it any longer. The drawings that he felt mildly proud of soured in his hands and suddenly angered, he thrust it under his thigh. He twisted himself away from the irritating hum of the girl, arms hugging around himself.

Now he was mad and he didn’t know why. The fact that he didn’t know why made it worse because it frustrated him until he simply wanted to march out of that confining space and leave. Even though sometimes at school the kids would say something stupid or unexpectedly mean, it never affected him the way Liane’s jab did. And her continued humming grated on Will’s nerves until he found himself wanting to lash out like a small child. It made him feel stupid that a kid his age he didn’t even know made him feel this way, when all he wanted to do was to mind his business and wait for Dr Warthrop.

Then to his dismay, Will felt the shameful urge to break-down and cry for no reason at all. His arms coiled tighter around himself, fingers curled into quivering fists beneath his arms.  

Suddenly a metallic click rang through the tight space, jolting both Will and Liane to the edge of their seats.

The door of Dr Penham creaked opened in front of them and two women emerged, their austere gazes latched onto the other in some contest of heated combativeness. They were as different as night and day in every physical way possible. The short curvy woman was dressed in creams and whites; the lack of color from her dress to the paleness of her short hair and skin offset by the numerous curtains of lace and trim upon her flouncy gown, the very picture of Rococo come to life.

The other lady, tall, lean and statuesque as an Art Nouveau maiden brushed in broad strokes of ink, was drumming her finely sculpted fingers together beneath her chin. She grinned lavishly with every quip, crocodilian in nature with her sharp cheekbones and perfectly tamed hair. It was completely at odds with her comrade’s chubby face and short lightening-stuck hair.

They continued arguing softly, strange for one who only stood witness to Warthrop’s monstrously loud tantrums and Kearn’s teasing laughter, though it did not mislead Will in their intensity and vehemence on the subject. The moment the older lady flicked her thin eyes around the room, they snapped like magnets to both Will and Liane.

She raised a brow in demanding query. “Now who is this, Liane?”

Before the girl could answer for him, her mouth already half-open, Will shot out of his chair and introduced himself instead. And just like the doctor taught him, he held out his hand in greeting.

The shorter lady said absolutely nothing, her face betrayed nothing, nor did she move. In fact, she looked quite uninterested in anything at all if one did not notice how her eyes flicked over the scene like some observant statue. The older lady, however, twitched her lips in a facsimile of a smile, head cocked as if she found Will’s manners quite charming.

“My, aren’t you a delightful little thing? Where’d you come from?”

“He’s with Dr Warthrop, Mum! Dr Warthrop! Can you believe it?”

At the piping voice answering behind him, Will grit his teeth and slowly pulled his hand into his sleeves, wishing he had his hoodie to hide them in. He took a small step back and nearly bumped into the girl behind him.

“Oh sorry _lah_!” replied Liane, bouncing on her feet as Will withdrew back to his seat. “I didn’t mean to _kapuk_ your conversation but it’s so strange _lah_!

“Liane, please _hor_ , next time let William finish his thought. I’ve taught you better _lor_.” She shook her head in disapproval, which immediately leashed Liane’s outpouring of exuberance.

“Sorry, mum.” She bowed her head. Then penitence over, she grinned brightly once more. “But Dr Warthrop! Are we gonna stay and see him, eh _lah_?”

“It seems not needed,” replied her mother. “I don’t think he very much minded my amendment to his treatise on the inclusion of anthroponotic diseases.”

“I always wondered what he thought of your letter,” laughed Liane. “But Will here says he’s with Dr Warthrop. That he’s watching him! He’s so mean to kids but now he’s got to watch one!”

Her mom’s eyebrows rose slightly at that. “Is that so? _Or-bi-good!_ What a revelation! Seems he has finally come to his senses or gotten his come-uppance. Whichever _lah_!”

She laughed and her daughter joined in, snickering like a pair of magpies. Will scooted as far into his seat as he could, tasting their slight mockery of the doctor upon his tongue. The other lady Will noted, was now leaning against the wall, eyes fixed eerily upon Dr Ainesworth’s door directly across from her.

“Come, Liane. I need to speak to Dr von Helrung. Hopefully, his peculiar secretary is not in residence, as I really find her lifestyle a bit disagreeable to say the least. Then we need—“

Mrs Kyew’s voice abruptly died as the double-doors shut behind her and Liane, Will just catching the tiniest glimpse of Liane’s hand in her mother’s as they vanished. That small gesture, though from two people Will found immensely discomfiting, pulled at something within him. Tugging his eyes away from the door, he found the other woman still exactly as before, though her clear eyes observed Will where he sat.

For a while, both of them remained quietly as they were, the stout lady’s hands hidden in the folds of her gown as her eyes affixed themselves resolutely to the door and Will in his seat, his own hands tucked in his floppy shirt sleeves. Some mumbles rose and fell behind the main office door, much like when Will would sneak into the kitchen late at night for a drink and overhear the swell of his parents discussing something in the refuge of their own room, shut off to his curious ears.

Suddenly the door broke open, spilling forth the doctor and a crotchety old man arguing like two schoolchildren.

“Absolutely not! I don’t care if he’s the Prince Regent!” the old man spat, waving what seemed to be a skull-encrusted cane dangerously close to Warthrop’s face. “Children aren’t allowed in the Monstrumarium!”

“I told you,” ground out Warthrop, in a near-shout. “Will Henry is my assistant! I require his services else I’ll be here all week!”

“I didn’t say nay to that part, Warthrop, or have you gone deaf? I said ‘no children!’ They steal and lie and touch everything that says ‘no touching’! Bah! Keep the little buggers and their sticky fingers away from my Monstrumarium!”

The old man sniffed, his bulbous pockmarked nose sucking in the air like a clogged vacuum, before snapping his head towards Will. His teeth clacked in distaste, the clean white orthodontics unsettling in a face so gnarled and old, discolored with a variety of spots.

Catching Will’s minuscule shift of discomfort at the probing eyes behind his glasses, the old man bristled, his strangled side-whiskers agitating outwards like a territorial tomcat’s. Despite the profusion of facial hair, he was entirely bald on top and like his flushed cheeks, the shiny pate turned a splotchy shade of maroon.

“See! Your kid’s a troublemaker!” the man snarled. “All that wiggling in his seat because he knows what I am thinking and that I caught him thinking of bad things!”

Before Warthrop could even put in so much as a breath, the old man continued. “All innocent there like some angel, Warthrop, but you remember Lucifer was an angel too! Hah! Parents had it coming when they say children are no better than angels! Now you, Dr Warthrop, may do your bit with Dr Penham here and she’ll make sure you put everything back where it belongs! And don’t you think I’m some doddering old fool who forgot you misplaced that sample of _Trypanosoma brucei_ when you were a naught a few years older than that lad over there!” he retorted with a thump of his cane when Warthrop tried to interject.

“He’ll have to leave immediately!” Dr Ainesworth thumped his cane again for emphasis and then as if there were other children milling about, he jabbed the head of his cane directly at Will, the ocular cavities of the skull atop it glaring accusingly Will. “Immediately!”

When the bedraggled gatekeeper glowered at the doctor, jowls aquiver, Warthrop held up one hand in surrender. “Understood, Adolphus. Will Henry will wait upstairs. But where is Dr Penham?”

“Are you as blind as you are deaf, Warthrop? She’s right there!” shouted Dr Ainesworth as Dr Warthrop whirled around. Removing one hand from her dress pocket, Dr Penham gave Warthrop a slight wave.

“Sheesh, and you call yourself a monstrumologist,” muttered the old man. He bobbed his head at Dr Penham. “Keep this man to yourself, you hear? He likes to touch things and not put them back.” He shouted it as if he was trying to toss the statement over Warthrop’s head.

“I do not!” exclaimed Warthrop, fists tight against his sides.

“What?” barked Ainesworth.

“I said, I do not go around touching things! It is for research!” Warthrop nearly bellowed.

“Well, why didn’t you say otherwise? Are you getting too old, Warthrop? And here I thought I was old.”

“I am not—“

“Old? Hah! You are stubborn like an old person and I should know!”

Warthrop’s face warred with nonchalance but failed as shots of dull color marred his pale cheeks.

“I am not…stubborn,” he bit out, daring to look the shorter man in the eye. “I am resolute. There’s a difference in the vocabulary, Dr Ainesworth. Stubborn is reserved for children. Or pack animals. And seeing as I am neither—”

Dr Penham’s pale eyes lit up in a flurry of sparks.

“But Warthrop,” she interjected. “That is inherently false. Evidence states otherwise. You’re more stubborn than a pack of children. And on more than one occasion have been likened to a jack—“

“That is enough, Eleonora.” Warthrop looked as though he wanted to spit nails.

“Yes, yes. Warthrop is right. Take your scrabbling elsewhere.” Dr Ainesworth waved at them distractedly as he retreated back into his dimly lit office. “And don’t forget your little cretin too before he grubs up something.”

“Why ever do you keep me around?” sighed Penham with a twitch of a smile, hands signing something in the air.

Catching the movements, the old Welshman scoffed. “I keep you around so the fire marshal isn’t breathing down our necks. Now get on with yourselves! Get! I have work to do—more so now that you’ve interrupted me with your drivel!” Then with a bang, the door shut roughly, the plastic sign clattering noisily.

Warthrop rubbed the area beneath his brows with an exasperated exhale of breath. Meanwhile, Dr Penham serenely made her way over to Will and held out her hand.

“Come. You have to go upstairs. I’ll ask Roddie to watch you. He’s the barkeep. You have something to do? It might be a long time.”

Will nodded and allowed her to pull him to his feet. “Yes ma’am. I have a book to draw in.”

“Ah, good. Now, none of this ‘ma’am’ stuff. Makes me feel old. My name is Ellis.”

“I’m Will Henry.”

Pale eyes shot to Will like quicksilver. 

“I can see it,” she replied after a moment. “So what are you to Warthrop?”

Warthrop clamped a hand upon Will’s shoulder, squeezing it possessively. “He’s my assistant—“

“He’s too young,” interjected Ellis, eyes narrowing.

“Apprentice,” amended Warthrop.

“Ah. Trying to make fashionable again the archaic customs. I see.”

“Not in the slightest,” gruffed the doctor.

“Child labor then? Though that practice is still in use. So you’re a little behind the general _nouveau_ of it all, Warthrop.” Ellis’ face remained as placid as ice but her eyes twinkled merrily at Warthrop’s thunderous countenance.

The man sighed, shoulders relaxing beneath his neatly pressed vest. He ran his fingers through his hair distractedly. “What time are we leaving?” he asked, checking his watch.

“Do you mean when can you see the collection? Or when we finally leave this mortal coil? The former I can tell you. For the latter, I’m not telling you even if I knew. That’s pretty personal.”

Unexpectedly, Warthrop let out a small chuckle that quickly dissolved into a snort. “Duly noted. The former if you please?”

“Let me retrieve the disks for you. Then we can go.”

Walking with short quick steps back into her office, she returned with a bundle of floppy disks in hand and a thick set of jangling keys in the other as she proceeded to lock her door.

“Now we can go. After we drop off your Will Henry here.”

Warthrop shuffled after her, her quick feet leading the way. “He’s not my Will Henry.”

“Is that so? Well, I guess. He’s much too cute for one.” With a jerky sweep of her hand, she tore open the door and shooed both Will and Warthrop through it. “Your kid would be a dry sour rind. A pork rind. All vinegar surliness.”

She tossed her glance over her shoulder. “Yes, like that, Warthrop. All in the genes, yes? Kind of you to provide proof. But stop scowling. You’re going to make the next couple of hours distasteful.”

“Only if you desist this tomfoolery both you and Dr Ainesworth seem hell-bent on cultivating this early in the morning.”

“Payment for making me work this early,” retorted Ellis, reaching the stairs. “Too early to take tea with Aisley. So you get to take insults with me. Fair deal.”

“But this is your job,” snapped Warthrop.

“Didn’t ever say I wanted it.”

Will Henry’s face looked up in surprise. He puffed up the stairs, catching up to the adults.

“If you didn’t like it, then why do you work here? Couldn’t you have done something you liked instead?”

At Will’s curious reply, Ellis paused upon the landing much to Warthrop’s chagrin; his fingers drummed a slight rhythm of annoyance against his valise.

“They paid me,” she answered. “My family did.”

“Paid you?”

Ellis shrugged. “I didn’t want to go to school for monstrumology. So they paid me to go here. And here I am. But I’m fine with it now. I like being down here. Dr Ainesworth is just a bonus.” Casting a glance at Will, she winked.

Will giggled.

Warthrop, however, merely grunted and took the lead, cutting in front of Ellis to take the remaining stairs back to the Monstrumologist’s Hall. Ellis cast Will a queer look before following Warthrop. Will jogged behind, doing his best to keep up with the doctor and his friend.

Besides his appearance change from surly disheveled basement-dweller with his gaunt and untidy clothing to the brooding and handsome doctor figure that Will often conjured up to accompany his dad's adventure stories, Will was most surprised to discover the man's ever increasing crowd of colleagues. And friends, if they could be called that. He wasn't sure the constant insulting that happened between a variety of them could be considered something friendly at all.

Will scrunched up his face.

Though if Dr Kearns, who personally called himself Warthrop's friend still happily claimed that title despite everything, Will figured perhaps it was just what being the doctor's friend entailed. It made the doctor's constant snappish and sometimes hurtful remarks a little bit more palatable to think about, since it didn't seem as though they were only reserved for Will after all.

Something pinged inside of the small boy as he wondered about his father's interactions with the doctor. Was his father happy and carefree in the doctor's presence as Ms Aisley or even Dr Kearns? Dr Torrance hinted about his trips with the doctor, and his dad always enjoyed regaling Will about his own trips the most.

Oh, he never touched upon their work and what it entailed, which is why Will was so surprised upon entering the unknown world of monstrumology. But the stories he would tell—about the foods he tried, the strange cultures he navigated and the people he met—would enthrall Will so much that his mind often swam with the richness of his father’s storytelling until it conjured up dreams so extraordinary, Will ached with their loss when morning would snatch them away.

What truly astounded Will was not how many people knew Warthrop, (he figured since he was an important man, many people would have to know him) but how many people knew of his father. It was a bit unsettling since Will didn't know who they were, but they all seemed to know about him already. Also, as he met their friendly gazes and welcoming greetings, there was this strange undercurrent between every meeting: a feeling as he stepped forward to introduce himself, he was stealing into his father's role each and every time.

Unbidden, his gaze sought the doctor in front of him, his whole being radiating control and strength as he led the way. His long-limbed stature was ramrod-straight, feet unerring and sure in the path they were taking him. Despite his flaws, despite all that has happened in the past two months, Dr Warthrop always kept along the path he set out for himself, working himself to exhaustion to achieve what he wanted.

His gaze fell upon the doctor’s free hand.

With an overwhelming suddenness, he wanted to hold Dr Warthrop’s hand. Loneliness drenched him from all sides, leaving him adrift in an extreme sense of loss.

But here was a hand; the hand of the man who had personally wanted to take him in.

Will trembled. He was terribly afraid. What would the doctor do? His dad always delighted in holding his hand, whether in fatherly affection or to ensure he was safe when Will was scared or lonely. It was even better when both this mother and father took a hold of his hands, safely tucked in-between their sure love for him.

But the doctor…he was just a man. Not his father at all; just a friend of his father’s, no different than these scores of other friends that he had just begun to meet. What if he sneered at Will or rebuffed him? When Will allowed his mind to stray towards that possibility, he grasped his hands together and lagged further behind.

He would, he just knew it. All the arguments he had witnessed from the doctor’s friends in regards to him. How the doctor hardly resided anywhere near Will unless it had something to do with his work.

Like fetters upon his heart, that old childish ache tightened as his tamped fear returned with renewed fervor. _Did the doctor even want him?_

The doctor was a fly-speck in the vast brightness in front of him. The white-washed hallway blinded him with bleached light until only the doctor was the only latch-hold in his narrowed vision. Blood pumping luridly through his limbs, he fought his way through the convulsing walls and scrambled breathlessly to the doctor’s side. His hands wept, slick with fear.

Without a second thought, he fumbled for the security of that hand, etched into sharp focus with recesses of black. Will latched onto that hand with both of his, drowning in so much white he could taste its corrosive tang. 

Sharpened black pits fell upon Will’s streaked figure.

“Will Henry? Whatever are you doing?” His voice, deep and rumbling, sounded so far away like distant thunder.

“I-I…” Will gasped, the hurried gulps of air a stale anodyne.

“Yes?”

Will tore his eyes away from the doctor’s. Upon his own two hands, he felt the tiniest squeeze.

“I-I was afraid.”

“Afraid, Will Henry?”

“Yes, sir.”

The doctor’s hand slipped free of Will’s, retreating as he pressed the door open to the Grand Hall, its opulent gold and crimson a sickening spin of churning color.

“That might be expected of a child’s first time in the Society,” he commented, holding the door open. “But beyond that, there is nothing to be afraid of, Will Henry. A truly unnecessary emotion.”

He waved Will over to his side as they made their way to Dr Penham, where she stood waiting for the doctor at the bar.

“A truly unnecessary emotion,” he repeated. “Because all that can harm you here is deeply and truly dead, or bound in the deepest, darkest enclosure where no child is permitted.”

And with that he left, leaving Will to wait for him as he disappeared back beyond the locked doors, with the gauzy form of Dr Penham lingering just beyond.

***


	17. What Is It I Truly Want?

Shh.

A mere scrape of sound.

Against your wrist, the soft slide of twilight’s belly. It settles, expectant.

Kiss the edges with your fingertips.

It breaks; the sand fractures the silence, whispering as a small figure makes his way quietly across the flat expanse. A reluctant fractured mirror-image is suspended above, bolted in with the first pinpoints of evening light.

The child stops, hands brushing carefully against his side.

Vibrating, everything trembles.

They are waiting.

The boy crouches in the clear glass sea, thousands of dusk-colored stars skittering across the tops of his feet. Something inside him cracks, blossoming like spilled ink in water. His face warms and he reaches to brush his fingers against the sand.

He hadn't known stars existed on earth, here where he could touch them, shimmery-soft against his hands, and watch them cascade between his toes.

Something hovers, keen.

Waiting.

The boy stands back up again, eyes cast out beyond his range of vision. Beyond the horizon, beyond where anything existed. Not even where the ever-constant scrape of earth and sky ground together and no amount of running could allow you to touch it.

He sighed and the sea murmured back, soft ripples twining gently at his ankles. Unlike the harsh profile of ocean he'd met a couple of times with his family, this sea was friendly, its surface dappled with scattered remnants of sunlight winking up at him.

Never before had Will seen so many stars in one place as his eyes fell upwards into a fathomless sky. It wasn't black like the night captured in his window. Instead it melted into the sea, infinite colors dripping down until it melded beneath his feet.

_Did you know, Will, that there are more stars in the sky than there are people on this earth? More than all the grains of sand on the beach even._

Will understood as the cast-off remains of stars slipped away, consumed by the disappearing sea. That too, was engulfed by the undulant expanse of sky. Without a bulwark of light to ward it off, its belly lit with infinite facets of devoured stars.

_Will...you can't see them here but one day you will...a sky so full of stars that you want to cry because it's so beautiful. Impossibly so. So much that you start to tremble because you know you might not see something like it again._

Cushioned by the darkness blanketing his drifting body, Will nodded.

_One day, will I understand?_

_One day, Will. I promise. Can you wait until then?_

Will nodded again even as ink spilled, coursing down his cheeks and gathering hot beneath his neck. His hands clenched as water no longer lapped at his fingers but instead a sharp bite of glistening heat.

His blood sparked; it hammered and recoiled against a stuttering spike of surging adrenaline.

His heart leapt, its hoarse pulse galloping breakneck through his blood. Will felt it pound in his throat. His hands. Ears. Eyes, fingertips, pulse jumping rocketing in this throat trapped, trapped against his tongue seizing—

Water, no longer cool, lurched, a vaporous specter of congealed fluids.

Sap, sweat, tears, spit.

Blood.

Before Will could let out a cry, it swarmed about his neck and choked him.

_We are made of stars, Will. And stars are made of fire. That's how we are created, from the remnants of fire. Isn't that magnificent?_

Clawing, clawing—

_Will Henry...it is truly magnificent!_

Heat scorched upwards, desecrating tears.

_But what if they take it all away? Why? Why?_

_It's all gone. Gone. Father, please come back..._

“Will Henry—“

_Please...It’s all GONE—_

“Will Henry!”

Will lashed out. A shout erupted to his right. His hand ricocheted upwards with a throbbing pain and Will jerked it back, clasping it tight against his chest. Shallow breaths escaped in little puffs through cracked lips.

Hot. It was too hot.

His mouth was dry, scorched, seared with a shock of slippery metallic coating upon his tongue.

Suddenly the angry splotches of crimsons and gold snapped into focus like a swarm of flies suspended.

There, beyond the slab of deadened brown.

_There._

A slash of black was doubled over, wavering as scratches of noise buzzed in Will's ear. The shape swirled and instinctively Will shoved himself deep into the cushions at his back, feet slipping on the slick surface.

Deep rivulets of scarlet swam through thin fingers. And two accusing eyes hung above the red.

Panicked, Will tried to breathe, but his lungs convulsed as the doctor's penetrating gaze sawed through Will's shaking body.

"Will Henry!"

The familiar bark was swallowed up by the hum of a thousand shards burrowing through his head.

"Will Henry, look at me!"

Two hands grabbed Will's shoulders and everything shattered, the endless sky exploding into shrapnel around him.

"Here, take this." A handkerchief, spotted with dabs of rust, was thrust into his trembling hand.

The scrap of cloth found its way to Will's face, soaking up the trails of moisture that lingered there. The doctor straightened and looked about the room, lips thin and drawn.

Will shook, breaths still coming much too fast and much too shallow for his heart to slow back down. But the sharp presence of the doctor in the sea of red ground him, Will’s eyes fixed upon the doctor's pale face where bits of red flecked his jaw.

Quietly, Will handed back the bit of dampened cloth. With a grunt, the doctor took it back. He scrubbed at his face and hands once more, then tucked the soiled cloth in his pocket.

"You need to wash up, Will Henry," said the doctor gruffly. He didn't look at the boy but instead grabbed his valise and left without another word.

Will’s body sprung to life, scrambling pell-mell after the doctor and followed him into a bathroom near the Front Entry. Silently, the pair of them splashed chilled water against their faces, wiped away the evidence and toweled themselves dry. The hushed task, the simple ritualistic movements done thousands of times before, soothed Will's skittering heart back into a calm sigh and he tossed his paper towel into the bin.

Without saying anything to Will, the doctor left and with heavy feet, Will followed. Will felt like he was moving through a haze, the once crisp surroundings smeared as if he was looking through a pair of dirty glasses.

Shuffling behind the doctor, Will nearly bumped into him as the man stopped abruptly. He said something that jumbled into cotton before brushing past Will into a room. Tugging open the door after him, Will entered what he belatedly noticed was the exhibition hall from earlier.

Unlike the grand expanse of the entry, it was all done in cool greys and blacks, sectioned off in cases and stands of sharply cut displays.

Warthrop abandoned Will, immersing himself in the exhibition, hands clasped at his back as he bent over the placards and displays. Will waited for the doctor to direct him to his side or tell him to do something but as usual, once he completely gave himself up to a task, Will was forgotten.

Will leaned against the wall, head knocking back against the plaster. He wanted nothing more than to fall back asleep; he was so exhausted. Despite being fully awake all morning, once Warthrop had left him in the barroom, fatigue had pounced, dragging Will into a fitful doze of strange dreams he couldn’t remember.

Will clenched his eyes shut, hands slipping where they pressed against the wall.

He felt so ashamed. He couldn't believe he accidentally lashed out at Dr Warthrop when the man had tried to wake him.

It was so humiliating because he hadn't done that when the nice bar lady roused him to ask if he was feeling well. He had just felt a bit groggy then, with a distinct sense of dreaming of something unpleasant. And she had been kind, remembering what he ordered before and treated him to more orange juice while he waited.

But the doctor... _he had hit Dr Warthrop_. Hit him so hard, he bled from his nose.

Will arched off the wall, arms wrapped consolingly around each other. Looking around, Will found the doctor lingering around a large printed display, rubbing his chin as he bent over a couple of journals trapped behind glass.

Not wanting to loiter around the front door, Will started peering around some important looking documents. The letters swam before him, making reading impossible.

The doctor hadn't said anything to him at all after they cleaned up. Just a couple of commands. But no words of comfort, no condescending remarks, and no chastisement.

But Will had caught something nonetheless.

The pallor of the doctor's suddenly haggard face. The tendril of blood worming its way past his fingers. The eyes widening the smallest of fractions. Those eyes always fixed upon him, now suddenly looking as though they were beholding Will for the first time.

And Will knew that look. Saw it mixed with shock, fury or disappointment on Officer Morgan's face a couple of times when the man was arguing with the doctor. Saw it on his teacher’s face when she called him up after he gave his report. And the unbearable version that sometimes overwhelmed his memories of his mother, where he could hear her crying softly in her bedroom while his father left once again.

Will was tired. All he wanted was to return to the only piece of home he had left, safely tucked away in the tiny attic bedroom with the few possessions he owned: his school journal, his hunting hat and some trinkets from the Stinnetts. He didn't want that overly large bedroom at the hotel, a room so big he drowned in it while the doctor tinkered away in the living area, giving more attention to the contents of a dead boy's stomach than the growling emptiness of another’s not a room away.

Rubbing his arms, Will wished he brought his jacket now. It didn't matter that it smelled like stale food and was a bit ratty; he was cold and the threadbare fabric was soft and comforting.

It wasn’t like anything seemed to matter anyway. The doctor didn't need his assistance in the Monstrumarium. He didn’t seem to need him now. The doctor could have given him something to do, anything that allowed him to help the doctor in any way he could, but he hadn’t. He had just left him alone in a room full of strangers.

So what was the point of him being here? What was the point in anything at all? He was missing school for this trip and he couldn't do anything to help!

Swallowing thickly, Will hurried away until he could no longer catch any glimpse of the doctor.

What was it he wanted anyway? Will had been living with Dr Warthrop long enough to see that this was what the man did and it was who he was. He wasn't going to change just because he had Will now staying with him. For the doctor, acquiring Will was no different than getting some new piece of furniture. Something new that you noticed and sometimes thought about as you moved around it or used it for some task but once you were done, you were done and forgot about it until you needed it again.

Will idly scratched some dirt off of the exhibit placard, not paying any heed to the replica of some bacteria in front of him.

_What could he do? Was there anything at all?_

"Umm, excuse me?"

Will lurched back and saw a boy standing close, elbows and arms tucked in at his sides. In his small hands, he clasped a thin sheaf of papers and pencil. Though it was a comfortable temperature in the building, he was bundled up snuggly, scarf about his neck and worn fingerless gloves on his hands.

"Oh, I'm sorry." Will scooted over to the side.

The other boy cocked his head at Will. Then he squared his shoulders and gave Will a dazzling smile.

"Thank you."

Bending over the display's placard, the boy began reading and jotting down answers to his worksheet. Humming to himself, he quickly finished with a scrawl of his last answer. He adjusted the knit beanie upon his head, tucking in the wispy blond hair that curled out and turned to leave.

"Hey, wait—" Will clamped his lips together, wondering at the impulsive urge he had to talk to this new boy. He fidgeted a little as the boy turned back, his large eyes regarding Will.

"What's up?"

Will fumbled for a coherent response in his head, wondering if he could find a decent explanation or excuse for why he spoke up. He couldn’t.

"What are you doing?" Will asked, gesturing lamely to the other boy.

"Umm? Doing?" The boy tugged on his lip. Then his gaze blossomed with comprehension.

"Oh! You mean this? I'm on a field trip today! It's our worksheet. Our teacher gave us the summary info so now we have to read the stuff on our own and fill in the questions. Anyone that completes the whole thing with an 'A' gets to play baseball afterwards instead of redoing the wrong answers, so I gotta finish this before we leave."

"You play baseball?" Though the boy looked a few years older than Will, they were almost the same size, prompting Will to wonder his field position.

"Yeah, I really like it but I'm pretty bad at it. I haven't played since I was a little kid and there's no way I'd ever make the team with how bad I'm now," replied the boy, smiling with a flush across his nose.

"I'm going to apply for a team too when I go up to middle school!" blurted Will, a bit of excitement spilling through at sharing the boy’s feelings. He looked down at his hands. "Though I feel I won't be too good either. I haven't been practicing like I should."

"Oh, what’cha you play? You have a spot? I'm none too good with much but I'm good at spotting balls, so I like batting and playing catcher."

"I do shortstop because I run really fast. Plus I can catch and throw pretty fast too."

"Oh! That's what Yves does!" The boy's hands shook with his joyful laughter that ended in a tiny smile as he tucked his head down. He rolled the paper idly between his hands. "But yeah, I'm wondering if I should even try because I'm not that good and like Yves says, the practice I'll put into it will be a big waste of time if I don't make it and I could have been studying or something else." His mouth pulled before resuming into a smile once again.

"Sorry, I kinda babbled on there. So yeah? You gonna try out for your school? And is that why you're here too? School trip?"

Will looked away, feeling guilty at the mention of school. "I want to try out and my friends want me to, too, so I will. But no, I'm here with the doctor. I should be in school but I'm not." Will hunched his shoulders, fists clamped tight. "But I'm working very hard! And I'll make up all my work when we get back, so it'll be OK!"

The other boy's eyes widened at Will's outburst, his sandy eyes fixed on him. But then with a small chuckle, he bapped Will's head with his rolled-up worksheet.

"Alrighty then; sounds good! That's what I figured since you're not surrounded by a buncha other kids, that you had to be here doing something really important."

Mutely Will nodded, cheeks alight and a mixed bag of emotion flopping to and fro in this stomach.

"Clarky! Whatcha doing? You know your partner has been doing everything without you again!"

Both boys spun around as a short stocky girl jogged straight up to Clarky and jabbed a finger into his chest, knocking the smaller boy back with a pained expression.

"Sammy, you're gonna end up sticking a hole in me every time you do that!" coughed Clarky, thumping his chest.

"Wouldn't have to if you stuck with your wandering partner, man. I ain't having what happened last time happen again. You hafta catch for us! Johnny sucks and keeps dropping all my pitches! And the teacher said you HAD to work together! I'm gonna be mad if you ain't there!"

"Ok, ok! Where's Yves? He was the one that told me to take the front and he'll do the back. That's kinda working together, isn't it?"

The girl rolled her eyes. "Not according to teach, it ain't. Now stick to his stupid butt like glue or else!"

She glared at Clarky, shoving her scowl up into his face before running off again, disappearing into a gaggle of children hanging around the stairs and elevator.

"Whew, I thought she was gonna kill me for a second there."

"You mean Sammy? She's just a loudmouth. But whatever; I’m not enough of a wimp to be scared of her like you."

At the bored tone behind him, Clarky let out a squawk and leapt into the air. The boy whirled until he was fumbling next to Will. The unimpressed newcomer just scoffed and looked away, eyeing something in the distance.

"You finished? You better be because we're gonna leave soon and I got all mine done," the lanky boy drawled, hands hooked into his jeans pocket and worksheet tucked under his arm. Unlike Clarky, he was dressed with a simple pair of shorts, sneakers and a T-shirt that was either too small or very fitting. His eyes had a perpetually tired look to them and coupled with his dark brows slashing across his forehead, he looked perpetually irritated or angry about something.

"Well...not exactly. I still have a couple more to fill in," said Clarky sheepishly, ducking his head to the side. "I was just talking to this guy here about baseball."

"Baseball?" An incredulous look stole across the boy's features before he swiped it away. "I thought you weren't going to waste your time trying out for something so stupid."

"I didn't say I was, Yves. I just said I was talking about it. Listen, will you? Anyway, I guess I'll go and get the rest of these filled in because I still want to play later today even if you don't." Clarky gave a self-depreciating snort and turned to Will, a slight smile back on his face.

"Hey, good luck with your school stuff too, eh? See ya." He gave Will a small wave, just curling his stubby fingers open and closed before bouncing off towards some display away from them.

Yves watched him go and snorted when he caught the not-so-subtle glimpse back in their direction. He mumbled something under his breath. Then he trudged up to Will, cocking his body slightly as he stopped in front of him.

"You some new kid? You look a little too young to be in middle school...are you one of those shrimpy smart kids?"

"I'm in 5th grade and no...I'm not—I'm here with the doctor...Dr Warthrop," Will clarified, stumbling a bit as he saw the older boy's frown scrape continuously downwards into a scowl as Will kept talking.

"Dr Warthrop, huh? I heard that name somewhere...but I guess it wasn't important, else I'd remember it. Huh. At least you're not some newbie. We already got enough and it's getting hard to keep track of them all, especially when they keep acting like little babies."

The boy sighed and scuffed the back of his military-styled haircut, eyes picking out something in the distance. Leaning against the display, one hand still tucked in his pocket, he whipped out his own worksheet and started looking over the answers. But after a minute or two of his mouth pulling at the edges, he sighed again and whirled on Will.

"What'cha sticking around for? Isn't your own doctor man floating around here somewhere to pick you up or something?"

Will sat on the ground, arms wrapped around his knees. "Yeah, but I'm just waiting for him. He wanted to look at the exhibit and I don't know where he is, so I'm just waiting near the front door so he can find me when he's ready to leave."

Yves scoffed above him. "Sounds boring. Couldn't he give you something to do? Why are you even here then? A waste of time if you ask me."

It felt like the other boy socked him right in the chest. Will tugged his knees closer, staring off at the front door but not really seeing anything.

"Honestly, that's the one thing I don't understand; what's the point of doing something that won't get you what you want? I mean, yeah, Dr Chanler is all nice and all—too nice if you ask me—but like why do we have to be here? Not all of us want to study this stuff; it's not like it's gonna help me learn about machines and building things. How come adults think they always know what's best?"

Will snapped up at the mention of Dr Chanler, heart pounding with the surge of wondering if it was the same Dr Chanler whom he played catch and ate lunch with but Yves didn't notice, lost to his own rant. Apparently he took Will’s sudden head lurch as keen interest because he smirked and continued on—like the doctor, he seemed to appreciate an audience to his thoughts.

"Clarky said something about baseball to you, right? It's fun and all, but it’s just something to do when we're kids. You see, we’re going to high school now and no matter what I say, he seems dead-set on trying to get on the team next year. He's pretty mediocre but Dr Chanler thinks it'll be good for him. _Good for us._ But doesn't he know that this may be our only chance to get on out of here? I mean, god, you might think he's actually happy being stuck here all the time!"

Anger seeped through his eyes and immediately Yves clamped a hand to his face, damming the emotion. Dragging his hand down, the boy resumed, features impassive once more.

"He'll have to learn the hard way I guess, but why doesn't he ever listen? And he keeps doing it with that idiotic smile too—I just don't get it—ugh."

Despite the surge of conflicting emotions inside of him, Will tentatively asked, "So you’re trying to work hard to get what you think is best?"

Yves tched. "Not trying. I'm actually doing. If I sit around like a doofus hoping everything will work out, it ain't happening. You little guys like doing that sort of thing all the time, thinking grown-ups have your best interests in mind. And if I'm only 'trying' something, it doesn't mean I'm gonna get it. I got to do whatever it takes to get what I need. And I'm not about to let someone decide what happens to me now that I'm going to be an adult soon."

Will tucked his face into the crook of his arms upon his knees. He felt exactly what the older boy described. The feeling of uselessness and being tugged to and fro between the whims of other people, as if he didn't have a say in what he wanted or needed, sometimes even to the point he no longer even knew what he wanted anymore, but just allowing himself to go with whatever was thrown at him. It always seemed easier that way; easier to do what others told him to do and even easier to blame it on those same people when things happened that he didn't like.

But what was it that he really wanted? What did he really want to do? Would he always go with what they told him, no matter who it was?

A pair of shoes halted in front of Will.

"Hey Yves, can you round up the kiddos? The bus'll be here in half an hour and we need to do a headcount. Also make sure everyone has their belongings. I don't want to have to come back to get someone's coat again."

"Will do," replied Yves, tearing his hands out of his pockets to call loudly to the crowd of antsy kids to gather around and line up. Frenzied steps erupted to follow Yves' lead.

The stalwart figure of Dr John Chanler watched as his class spilled out of the maze of exhibits, a proud turn of the lips as students lined up neatly, talking excitedly about anything and everything. Then he turned around.

"Ok, you too, kidd—"

Chanler stumbled, eyes wide as he recognized Will peeking up at him. "Will! Will Henry! What? What are you doing here? Where's Warthrop?"

Before Will could reply, Chanler slapped a hand to his face.

"Oh man, where's my manners? And here I am with my troop of troublemakers too, and I can't even set an example. Wow. Here." He held out his hand for Will. "Let's get up off that ground, eh? Can't be too comfy down there. So what's up?"

After adjusting his rumpled clothes and checking his back pocket for his notebook, Will rubbed his arm, looking at Chanler's feet.

"Dr Warthrop’s here for his research. He was at the Monstrumarium today but now he's just looking around at the exhibition."

“Research? You mean the stuff he gave to Abram when we came down to visit? Have you guys visited Abram yet then? He’d be delighted to see you both if you haven’t already.”

“I’m not sure.”

“What do you mean—“

"John! What the devil are you doing here?"

Both turned, watching Dr Warthrop as he hurried past a couple of straggling students, shooting grimaces at their high-pitched laughter as they scurried away.

"That's what I'm wondering myself," returned Chanler, an intermittent smile loose upon his lips. "You hardly ever come to New York on your own unless someone drags you here or there's a promise of free food and free symposiums."

Warthrop cocked a brow, saying nothing.

The smile wavered slightly, freezing in place as Chanler fixed his eyes upon Will. Then back up at Warthrop. He scratched the back of his neck.

"Will here's been saying that you're here for research? Still working on that even though you gave it to von Helrung?"

The doctor crossed his arms and scoffed. "Just because I finish one project doesn't mean science waits daintily for me to take a charming little break, John. So yes, research. I have plans on entering two lecture findings this November at the Colloquium."

"But what about—"

Chanler bit his tongue, grimacing. After throwing a quick look towards his filing charges, he resumed. "So you have two research projects happening simultaneously? That has to be quite difficult. I'm guessing the timing's at fault here?"

"I wouldn't say that it's at fault; more like fortuitous. After all, we haven't had a double-backing in the symposium in decades and it's bound to cause quite an uproar and garner a lot of attention towards my work. It's been a while since I presented anything towards the Society at large and to have two findings of note? It'll be talked about in circles beyond our own!"

Chanler's smile slid off. "So you're not here for—?"

"Why else would I be here?"

Chanler stared agape at Warthrop, stark blue eyes jerking towards Will then back towards Warthrop. His lack of answer and slightly hanging mouth seemed to irritate the doctor, who sighed, lips thinning.

"What are you making that face for, John? What aspect of my actions do you disagree with this time?" he asked with an acerbic bite.

"What? What do you mean what?" erupted Chanler, finding his thoughts and immediately dumping them upon the good doctor's head. "You're just here for research? That's it? What about Will Henry? And Abram? Don’t tell me you’re not planning on visiting him while you’re here?"

Confused eyes lit to Will. Then back to Chanler. "What other reason would I need to bring Will Henry to New York? It’s not a vacation, John. And I just heard from Jacob that Abram is indisposed for the entire week with panels."

Chanler rubbed his jaw, looking abashed. “Oh. I forgot about the panels. Totally bypasses you if you aren’t drawn for them.” He shook his head. “Nevertheless, Abram aside, you’re still going to visit her, right?”

“Who?”

"For the love of—Emily, Warthrop! I thought you finally made up your mind on this! You can't just—holy shit." Chanler held his head in his hand, eyes unseeing as he wheezed past his choking irritation. Then he looked up.

"You do want them to see each other, don't you? How else is he supposed to understand your and James' world if you don't do anything for the boy? And you can’t just thrust him upon her later without him even knowing who she is!"

"That goes without saying, John. And what are you accusing me of with your assumptive claims? Of course I involve myself with the boy! I brought him along, didn't I? I could have left him with Robert if I had a mind to! But I brought him with me to help so he could learn and see various aspects of my work firsthand; I promised I would teach him in monstrumology as I did for his father before him! And that is not a promise I will take lightly."

Chanler deflated slightly at the statement, though he continued to glare at Warthrop. "Ok, I guess you're doing what you know best. But you will still go and say hi to Emily, right?"

Warthrop bristled. "I am not here on a visit, John. I can't stay more than necessary."

"Oh, no you d—“

"In case you haven't noticed with your own gaggle of children, _Dr Chanler_ , Will Henry too has his own educational duties back home. We cannot dally with visiting and extending his time spent away from school."

Chanler snapped his mouth shut like a slapped fish.

"Ok fine. I get it. So what do you have planned for the rest of the day?"

Warthrop crossed his arms. "None of your business, Chanler."

Chanler massaged his eyes with his hand. "I'm not asking to steal in on your ideas or research, Pellinore. I thought you were past such petty drivel. I was asking for Will."

"Will Henry? What do you want from Will Henry?"

"If he wants, I figured I could take him around New York for a bit. Perhaps if she's around, visit Emily as well." Chanler shrugged. “That way he can chill and get to know a bit more about Emily and her folks, and you can continue your work.”

Warthrop's eyes narrowed, hooking onto Chanler's. Then the doctor ripped his gaze away, slicing through the heavy atmosphere between them.

"Will Henry is to stay with me."

“Oh?” Chanler cocked his stance, bracing himself against the cold tile. “Are you paying Will then?”

“What the hell are you going on about now, John?”

“Well, if you keep shackling poor Will here like your personal lackey, I’m just hoping you’re paying him minimum wage. Can’t even let the poor lad go for a night on the town with a fellow monstrumologist.”

“I am in need of his services,” responded Warthrop haughtily.

“You telling me you can’t survive one night without him to help you, Warthrop? I just found him sitting all by himself! You don’t need him around you 24/7. Even old man Wittgenstein was able to stop by for the Spring Conference."

“Wittgenstein is here?” asked Warthrop, instantly distracted. “Is he still in NYC? What of the passel of children and creatures he seems so fond of?”

“He cares for them very well, Pellinore; they can handle themselves,” admonished John, crossing his arms.

“What? Have they all been rehabilitated?”

John gaped openly at his friend, utterly dumbfounded.

“Sometimes Pell, I wonder if you even hear yourself talk sometimes. Just what are you—never mind. Back to your previous question, he leaves Wednesday so you might be able to see him when he stops by tomorrow to wrap things up with Solowit. Seems he wants to open up a couple of overseas scholarship programs, so I think you could provide some insight there.”

“That clarifies it. Jacob didn’t mention anything about Wittgenstein being on the panels and given his own lack of interest, I could not see that being the singular reason for someone that is Germany’s most prominent monstrumologist coming to the States. Even if one of his students reside here.”

John sighed impatiently. “That aside, Pellinore. You can’t have Will accompany you to see Wittgenstein. The only way you can catch him is either at the panels, which even you aren’t allowed to interrupt, or with Solo.”

Warthrop pulled his lip back with a snarl. “I’ll just leave Will Henry back at the hotel if I absolutely have to.”

“Are you listening to yourself? Leaving Will alone while you gallivant about town? How inconsiderate can you get? What is the matter with allowing Will a bit of sightseeing and meeting his potential—“

“He is to stay with me!”

Will took a step back from the reverberating frustration that pulled taut with every restrained shout from the two adults. In their rising anger, they forgot about Will as they jabbed and parried sharp words against the other.

Will wanted nothing more for them to stop. Wanted them to listen to what he had to say instead of pretending that he wasn’t there or that he was too stupid or young to think for himself.

Will did want to go with Dr Chanler; it would be more fun and exciting than sitting around doing nothing or doing the exact same thing he did at the house. But despite the lure of a day out with a man that enjoyed hanging out with him as a boy, Will wanted to stay with Dr Warthrop. For some inexplicable reason, he actually _wanted_ to stay.

But something chained within him yanked him back, stifled him from immediately spilling the first set of words that tried to tumble from his lips. That inherent need for validation. To be needed. To be wanted as something more than a passing thought or a handy convenience.

It swam so furiously through his veins, emboldening him to turn and face the doctor. Will bit his lip, eyes clenched shut. Then like a fevered wish, it tumbled from his mouth in a breathless rush.

"I want to go with Dr Chanler."

Both men, too wrapped up in their antagonism, did not hear him.

“A day, Pellinore! This might be his only chance, knowing you—“

“Isn’t it just like you to foist yourself into my work schedule just to disrupt it with your own perception of what is right? I said that he—“

“I want to go with Dr Chanler!”

Both men froze.

Will glanced up at Dr Warthrop as the sickle-white of his eyes sharpened, freezing in their sockets. Warthrop's nostrils flared. Then his gaze tore up to the man at Will's side.

John, however, stared at Will uncomprehendingly. Then he looked up as well, only to be caught in the tangle of anger emanating from the doctor’s stiff form.

“What did you say?” Though soft, Warthrop’s voice tore through the deadened silence.

Will did not flinch. Hands open at his sides, he tilted his head up and quietly repeated, “I want to go with Dr Chanler.”

“Why?”

“Because…because I want to.”

“That is complete and utter buffoonery, Will Henry. That is no reason at all—“

“Yes it is!” Will shouted, hands curling tightly with his burst of repressed emotion. “I want to go with Dr Chanler because I don’t want to go with you!”

Warthrop’s haughty calmness snapped, face contorting on the end of a hangman’s noose.

“You ungrateful little—how _dare_ you speak to me like this? After I took your miserable corpse under my roof when I had absolutely no need or desire to? You impose upon my household every minute you reside there, yet you have the audacity to tell me you refuse to accompany me in the very work that your father entrusted to me before he died? And not only that, I have personally taken you under my tutelage for the study of monstrumology! I, who never has taken any sort of pupil and can do a hundred times better than you! Still you choose to go and frolic with John Chanler and forsake your duties!”

Will bristled, eyes stinging. “I have done everything you asked me to, sir! I can’t—“

“Can’t what, Will Henry? Think for yourself? Think with that pathetic little organ of yours so you aren’t latching yourself to every slick talking—“

“That is enough, Warthrop!” roared John, thrusting himself between the livid Warthrop and cowering Will Henry, whose trembling hands fisted themselves tightly in his shirt. “What right do you have to spew such vitriol at a child, much less the very child of your most devoted friend?”

“You would know well enough, Chanler, seeing as you always seem to insinuate yourself into my personal relationships whenever you please!”

“Stop.” John grasped Warthrop by the shoulders, his firm hands stark against the thin frame of the doctor.

“You will stop this now,” he repeated, voice sharp with command. Steel-blue eyes pierced heated black. His hands tightened around the doctor’s quaking shoulders. “You are hurting Will Henry, Pellinore.”

Something pealed through Warthrop, eyes shooting wildly to Will, to the small boy turned hoarse, body still wracked with the poisonous effects of the doctor’s mercurial temper.

“All you do is work, Dr Warthrop and I…I can’t help you with the work you need to do here. You just keep leaving me behind.”

Warthrop threw off John’s grip, stiffening. The fever-brightness of his eyes died out, replaced by deadened charcoal pitch.

“I thought you understood the necessity of my work, Will Henry. But I can see that is not the case.” Warthrop jerked his chin towards Chanler. “He can return tomorrow morning. Since Will Henry will not accompany me tonight, I will find something to do that does not require his estimable services. Drop him off at the Library Hotel.”

Scribbling a few numbers onto a business card, Warthrop shoved it into Chanler’s hand. Then without a backwards glance, Warthrop strode out of the room, flinging the door open and disappearing back into the recesses of the Society.

Chanler’s eyes followed him until he disappeared. Then fell to the small boy at his side, whose face still remained anchored to the empty door before them.

The man bent down, gently covering Will’s hands with one of his own.

“I’m so sorry, Will. I don’t really know what to say besides the fact that Pellinore has always held such an uncanny ability to be the biggest asshole this side of the Mississippi when he puts his mind to it. I just…I mean I know that doesn’t excuse the man at all.” Chanler’s head hung down, teeth grit as he fumbled around for what he wanted to say. He looked up at Will, hand cupping Will’s tightly.

“God, if there wasn’t a man I wanted to thoroughly kick straight into tomorrow than that workaholic’s ass, but…” Chanler sighed and then stood up.

“It’s hard when you have been standing in both pairs of shoes, Will Henry. Give him some time because I know he will regret his actions once he comes to his senses. But tell me if he apologizes for his actions or not, because I’ll make him if he doesn’t.” Chanler punched a fist into his hand.

“It’s alright sir,” replied Will quietly. “I don’t think I should have said that anyway.”

Chanler cupped Will around the head and gently tugged him to his side. “Now don’t say that, Will. Your thoughts and needs are just as important as his. He can be selfish and terrible when things don’t go his way; that is true.

“But Will, I want you to know this, even if right now it doesn’t seem true at all. Warthrop really does want the best for you, even if half the time he’s trying to wring as much as he can for himself as well, so it’s really hard to see. Sometimes I call it his own brand of selfish Warthropian caring. Tomorrow, you’ll see; it’ll be alright.”

Will was silent for a moment, walking carefully in step with Chanler as they made to rejoin the gaggle of students waiting for them.

“I really did want to go with you, sir. But I also was happy to help Dr Warthrop too. But when I can’t help him or he doesn’t need me, it’s like I’m not even there at all.”

Chanler’s hand tightened against Will for a heartbeat before letting go.

“I know.”

 

***

 

Climbing last aboard the activity bus, Chanler asked Will if he was ok sitting with his class since he had to sit with his colleague. A quick glance around the bus and Will found the familiar face of Clarky in the back and Will nodded, thanking Dr Chanler for his concern.

“Is it alright if I sit here?” Will asked when he reached the back of the small  bus.

“Oh! Sure!” exclaimed Clarky, immediately scooting over until he was pressed up against Yves, who grunted in response. “Can you sit next to the window though? I don’t like sitting in the window seat.”

“Ok,” said Will, maneuvering himself around Clarky’s legs.

“So! Why are you hanging with us?” Clarky’s smile was as kind as ever, a joyous sparkle upon his lips.

“Um, Dr Chanler invited me so I decided to come. I’ve never been to a science center before, especially one in New York. I thought it’d be fun.” Will shrugged.

“Is the doctor you said you were with ok with that?” asked Clarky, leaning upon his hands.

Will’s pulse flared. “Yeah, I guess. It doesn’t really matter anyway. It wasn’t like I was going to do anything with him if I stayed. He’s just going to go over all the stuff he got today from the Monstrumarium. If I’m lucky, I might get to type up his notes as always.”

“Well, I guess that does sound pretty boring.”

A laugh fell unexpectedly from Will’s lips, suddenly feeling very much like a wrung-out sock.

“He makes me do it for hours. I actually do more work for him than for school, including homework.”

“Goodness! Do you even get to play?”

Will’s mind fuzzed a bit at Clarky’s innocent question. He didn’t even realize how loaded it even was, considering he never really thought about it until now.

“Uh, not really. We don’t even watch TV because the doctor’s always working on his research. I get to play sometimes at recess but a lot of times it’s just the baseball practice and that’s only if I feel like it. I don’t really have toys anymore so…” Will sucked on his bottom lip, averting his gaze.

“Oh. Um…” Clarky twiddled his fingers, pausing only to swat Yves on the shoulder when he snorted. “Well, if you don’t mind me asking, why do you keep referring to your…guardian as ‘the doctor’? Does that mean he’s not your dad or anything?”

“My parents are dead. And no, he isn’t my dad…I don’t know what he is.” Will fisted his hands together and leaned back in the patched bus seat, turning his head to stare out the window.

“I’m sorry.” Clarky threw a disapproving frown at Yves when the boy smirked at the awkward atmosphere. Then he fidgeted a bit. “I didn’t mean to make you feel bad…it’s just that I thought maybe then you were like Yves and me.”

“Don’t bring me into this,” bit Yves over his shoulder.

“Stop being such a grump,” returned Clarky with a huff, crossing his arms over his patched coat. “Anyway, we don’t have parents either.”

Will looked back. “You don’t? So…where do you guys live now?”

“You better no—“

“Oh hush, I’m not,” interjected Clarky. “You see, both of us now have foster parents of sorts that kind of act like our parents but they aren’t really. But we are lucky this year because the school that both of us get to go for high school have dorms! So we get to live near each other and hang out more often! I’m excited about that. Plus it kinda means we get to grow up a lot faster.”

“So they aren’t like a new set of parents?”

“Not really. I mean…I guess they do the same thing as parents?” Clarky looked over to Yves, but the boy ignored him. Clarky shrugged. “Yves would know the difference better than me. I’ve never knew my own parents. Though all my foster parents were pretty ok for the most part.”

“You had more than one?”

“Oh yeah. Sometimes we didn’t get along, or they’d move or…other things. Haha.” Clarky chuckled, looking at his feet as he swung them, thumping his colorful sneakers against the bus.

“Was it scary?” asked Will, desperately wanting to know more. “I mean…how did you know that you wanted someone else?”

“Sometimes I didn’t have a choice like when they had to move. But other times…they just really didn’t understand me? And that made it very hard. I like to think they tried but it just didn’t work out.”

“Oh.” Will looked over the seats and other children’s’ heads towards where Chanler was happily talking to the other chaperone, laughing heartily at some joke. Then he turned back to Clarky.

“So does that mean the family you have now is one you like?”

Clarky shrugged. “I guess? I don’t really think about it too much because I’m super happy to finally have a place of my own. But I guess since we’ve been getting along well, I do like them? But it’s more like I’m just hanging out with my teacher or some really grown-up friends. Sorry, I’m not very good at describing it. I really don’t have anything to compare it to.”

“No, that’s ok; it really did help. I think I understand what you mean. Sometimes that’s how I feel too, but not all the time. I know I don’t think of the doctor as my father. My father is my father and the doctor is the doctor...”

Clarky leaned back in the seat, smiling at Will’s scrunched face as he sat thinking. “That’s the hard part about everything, I think. You’ll never really know the answer until one day you know the answer!”

Will looked uncomprehendingly at that, one brow arched and mouth half-open. Clarky giggled, one hand covering his amusement.

“Sorry, you just made such a weird face! But yeah, that’s really how it is. Like I didn’t think I could ever live by myself in a strange place like the dorms but after we did this mini-camp there, now I love it! I didn’t know the answer until I had the answer!”

“Yeah, that’s because you are the biggest dork, Clarky. Honestly. What kind of description is that?”

Yves laughed at Clarky’s outraged puff, fending off the shorter boy’s hands that sought to cuff him over the head. Snatching a hand out of the air, Yves flipped Clarky’s hands over, causing the other boy to squeak in embarrassment as he tried tugging his hands free.

“Hey, what’s this?” Yves asked, prodding the tip of Clarky’s ring finger. The boy flushed even redder, and burrowed his face into his scarf.

“You know what it is. Stop asking dumb questions,” he mumbled.

“Yeah I do, but why do you got nail polish on your fingernails?”

Yves didn’t look angry or upset as Will thought he sounded from his gruff voice. He seemed more confused than anything.

“Rei and Sammy had some and well…” Clarky shrugged, tugging on his hand.

With a huff, Yves let go and Clarky stumbled a bit, falling on Will slightly. He instantly righted himself as if burned, clenching his hands into his worn jeans.

“Tch, you shouldn’t let yourself be bullied by a bunch of girls. What does that say about you if let them do whatever they want?”

“It’s alright,” replied Clarky softly, looking down at his exposed fingers. “I don’t mind.”

“Eh? You’re too nice. Guys don’t like that sort of thing, you know?” With one glance towards Clarky’s painted nails, Yves shouldered himself back into the corner and resumed looking out the window.

Clarky didn’t say anything further, only rubbing the fabric of his scarf idly between his fingers.

“I like that color,” Will said.

“You do?” Clarky’s sandy eyes jumped up at Will’s admission.

“Yeah. It reminds me of the sky in summer. It’s what I like to start out with when I have to color something in art class.”

Clarky lit up. “Me too! That’s why…um…I chose it too.” The boy fidgeted with his fingers, darting small glances to Yves who was still absorbed in his window. “You see, Rei and Sammy brought a big bag full of their collection they got from Easter. It’s really neat; all these wonderful colors like paint in a bottle but more shiny and some even sparkle! We don’t get that in school anymore! I don’t know why—I loved the shiny paint in art class before I grew up to middle school. Now it’s all gone. I guess you aren’t supposed to like that sort of thing when you’re all grown-up.”

“I don’t think so? My mother had some but not too many. She liked soft colors the best. Like what you got. I never thought of trying it for myself though.”

“Me neither! But they asked if they could practice on me and they let me chose which one I wanted too! So then I did.”

Will smiled. “I think it looks really good.”

Clarky bunched his scarf up past his nose.

“Thanks,” he mumbled, a smile in his voice and upon his cheeks.

They finished the rest of the bus ride in comfortable silence with Clarky idly rubbing at his polished nails and swinging his short legs while Will, like Yves, stared out the window.

Though dwindled to a faint twinge that beat dully in his chest, the tightly bound ball of anger, shame and guilt still festered within Will. The words that had swished and swirled in his head finally jumbled into an incoherent mess of pained feeling, but they still imprinted themselves on him as effectively as a brand.

Will had felt a tremendous anger at the doctor’s selfish reaction towards his desire to take his friend’s invitation, especially after all he had done for the man. But like all anger, it chewed itself to pieces and was quickly overrun by shame and guilt, both infinitely more insidious and pervasive than the anger had ever been.

An upsurge of guilt spilled through him once he realized that Warthrop had been upset that Will had wanted to go somewhere without him, that he had wished for Will to stay. That he relied on Will that much. For a brief crystalline moment, Will had felt the strongest impulse to call out that he had changed his mind.

But Warthrop’s words immediately after had scoured that desire, leaving Will stinging with lashes of more guilt and shame. Before he knew it, what Will had wanted no longer seemed important or even necessary: it was just a child’s stupid whim, a tantrum at not getting what he wanted.

Feeling very much like bursting into tears, Will was grateful that Dr Chanler was there with him. His steady presence reined in that desire effectively with his kind touches and understanding words.

But that did not completely remove the fact that with a few selfish words, Will had failed the very man that he sought to do everything for.

The bus rocked to a stop, wheezing as it lowered itself to the curb in front of a huge glass-paneled building bedecked with a ring of emerald trees. Some parents were already milling around, ready to pick up their children.

Dr Chanler’s workplace wasn't quite a museum and wasn't quite a school. He explained to Will that it was more a combination of both where students could get extra help and have activities that catered towards more specific interests instead of being a standard public school system. Lots of schools went there on field trips for things like exploring taxidermy, taking care of several exotic animals housed on the premises and apprenticing under several in-house scientists or artists.

Inside, Clarky pointed out to Will a hall that students used afterschool to practice their art, whether it was music in sound-proof rooms or painting in specially designed studios. Clarky had earned a whack when he divulged that Yves sometimes could be found there if not studying extra stuff in the science wing.

What was even more remarkable was that despite being smack-dab in one of the most densely packed cities on the planet, Dr Chanler's work had both a gym and a small baseball field, where he took his group of kids to work off their energy before the rest of their parents came to pick them up.

Whether it was the promise of baseball or because they all genuinely liked Dr Chanler and wanted to their best by him, all the students had completed their assignment with high marks, earning them all a delighted bellow of laughter from their mentor. Jubilated by Chanler’s good spirits and enthusiasm, they all had tossed their backpacks in the dugout and ran off for their impromptu game.

Clarky (and to a lesser, more begrudging degree, Yves) asked Will to join in as well, which after a bit of cajoling he agreed to. Both teams were happy to have two fully functional teams instead of merely playing catch ball. Chanler was a most enthusiastic coach, at times whooping and hollering with the children themselves when they hit or caught a particularly difficult ball.

Afterwards, once all the children had been retrieved by their parents or guardians, Chanler spruced up and double-checked the areas he was responsible for before he waved goodbye to the front-office staff. Tucking his hands into his pockets, he walked down the street as he whistled a tune with Will in tow.

Afternoon had dwindled away, chasing after the waning sun. In the dusk, New York was a city hewn from copper’s fire, sparkling from the well-loved caresses of her inhabitants. Windows glittered like uncut jewels trapped in stone and everywhere people walked in -small groups of contentment, laughter flitting around them like moths.

Dr Chanler told Will that he lived in the East Village, which was a short walk from his work. Though Chanler apologized for making Will walk the way, Will was more than excited to walk around the streets of New York and take in the sights firsthand, much to the pleased approval of Chanler.

So Chanler obliged the latent child’s curiosity within Will, giving thorough commentary on the various sights around them such as the synagogues and specialty stores they passed. He explained the fire-escape stairs, eviction notices that were taped haphazardly in dusty, tchotchke-filled windows and even pointed out several surveillance cameras. Will enjoyed passing by the many restaurants and bars that lined the street where he could glance inside, observing people yelling at several TV’s or small groups of people happily eating fare that Will have never seen before.

Reaching their destination on a quiet street, they climbed up a set of sandstone stairs to a handsome door wedged in-between two red brick buildings. Chanler unlocked the heavy door and swept some clinging bits of ivy away. He invited Will inside first before relocking the door behind him. They made their way to the third floor, which Chanler shared with one other tenant, who inhabited the left half of the floor.

Entering John’s place, Will thought was a pretty home. Everything was clean and uncluttered unlike either the doctor’s house (which was usually always in a state of encroaching messiness) or his parents’ home (which was filled with knickknacks and treasures of every sort from the three of them). From the straw welcome mat to the overhanging pots and pans over the bar attachment, everything in Chanler’s house seemed to have a perfect place set for it. Even his shoes, which Chanler told Will to place on the shoe rack in the tiny area set aside with tile.

“Would you like me to hang your hoodie up too?” John asked after hanging up his own in the coat closet.

Will looked down at his newly lent Yankees jacket. After noticing Will had no coat or jacket, Chanler had fished out a spare from his office, happily noting that was exactly why he always stocked extras at work.

“Umm, could I keep it on? It feels comfortable.”

“Sure. You know what, you can just keep it since you haven’t got a favorite team yet. I don’t want to find you later as some Red Sox fan. Just thinking about one of my friend’s kids being into them is making my New Yorker’s heart hurt. Ack!” Chanler leaned against the wall dramatically, hand over heart, and made some more gagging noises.

Will snorted.

“Hey, don’t go laughing at my preemptive pain, you stink,” said Chanler. “I’m serious! Who’d want to cheer for a pair of stinky red socks when you can root for some good ol’ Yankees? Anyways, let’s get something to drink and then we can hang out in my room. Here’s fine if you want some grown-up chatting but I had enough of that this morning.”

At Will’s confused face, Chanler replied, “Meetings.” He sighed heavily and clamped a hand on Will’s head, ruffling his hair.

“Let me tell you Will, when you grow-up unless you’re living high off your own work like Pell there, you’re gonna be stuck in meetings all the damn time. It’s like group projects but worse, because they never end. Ever.” He twiddled his fingers at Will’s nose to emphasize his point, but all Will did was laugh.

“Oh, you don’t believe me now but boy you’ll be in for some pain once you get a job. But enough about boring stuff. Here, hold on for a sec.” John went to the kitchen and returned with two glasses of drink, ushering Will to follow into the hall. Careful not to knock over a side table with some decorations on it, Chanler bumped open a door, revealing the most boyish room Will had ever laid eyes on.

Every inch of the room as lined with shelves or bookcases or pieces of furniture, much like Warthrop’s study. But instead of being filled to the brim with books and papers and important bric-a-brac, everything was covered in pop culture paraphernalia and none of it was remotely organized. Figures of superheroes were interspersed with ones from Star Wars and several Yankee baseball players. Posters of rock bands hung side-by-side with cult movie classics. And everywhere were models of classic cars lining the shelves.

Chanler smirked at Will's bright-eyed expression. “Liking the digs?”

“I’ve never known that grown-ups could have so many toys and comic books,” said Will, awed.

“Hell, what else is money for? It’s not like what you like as a kid disappears once you get old. Hell, even Warthrop still goes batty for the shit he likes. You saw him hanging out in the exhibition, right? Pell could never resist that place even if he’s read up on the subject up and down; it's like his own little addict's den.

“But yeah, I grew up on all of this stuff, so this is like my own private hide-away. You like comics, Will?”

Chanler swept up a couple of single issues and tossed them onto the low coffee table before plopping into the accompanying sofa. He waved one over at Will, inviting him to take a seat.

Will took the proffered issue, looking over the cover. “I’m not sure if I like them. I’ve never really read comics. We never had them at school or home. I like short stories though; that’s what me and my father would read all the time.”

“Is that so? A lot of comic stories are like that. Just more pictures than words. What kind of stories did he read to you?”

“Sometimes stuff he liked. A lot were kind of sad but they always had adventures in them, so I didn’t mind. And sometimes stuff for school. I think he found those funny since he never heard of a lot of them and some were pretty weird.”

“I find a lot of kid’s stories are pretty strange myself but that’s what’s makes them fun, right?”

“I think that too. Oh! But we both liked _The Little Prince_ very much. Father told me once that his grandfather was a pilot like the one in the story. And sometimes he would say silly things like how he thought I’d make a very good Little Prince too, since I was always wanted to join him on his trips when he had to go with Dr Warthrop.”

“Is that so?” Chanler flipped idly though some of the issues and tossed a couple back on the table. “Do you feel the same way now? About Warthrop?”

“I don’t know,” answered Will, feeling the familiar squeeze of his insides. “He needs me, I think. Like he needed my father.”

“Well, Will, even if that is the case, he’s an adult. He can always hire another assistant. I know he’s done that a couple of times.”

Will whirled on Chanler.

“No! That’s not what I mean!” he shouted, startling the other man. Abashed at his outburst, Will fiddled with one of the comics.

“I mean, I don’t even know how to explain it,” resumed Will quietly. “It’s that…he needs _me_.”

Chanler held the boy’s earnest gaze before tipping his head back with a sigh. “You are your father’s son, Will. I don’t know how that man does it, but make sure you remember that even Pellinore isn’t infallible. He’s as human as the rest of us poor saps. Though I find it remarkable how much that man has and hasn’t changed since I’ve met him all those years ago.”

John took a sip of his drink, slipping a coaster under the condensing glass.

“Can I ask you something?” asked Will.

“Fire away, kiddo.”

“How do you know Dr Warthrop? Last time, you and Dr Warthrop said that you studied under Dr von Helrung before. So did you go to school together?”

John smiled. “Yep. Met him when he was a little older than you. I still remember it perfectly; showed up on the doorstep with his little schoolboy backpack filled to the brim with these dusty books, exactly two pairs of underwear, and this little beat-up journal he never let go of for like a whole damn week.”

Will's eyes bugged out of his head. "You went through his things?"

"Of course; we shared a room together. New York ain't exactly roomy. Lived with the guy for seven straight years."

At Will’s avid curiosity sparking upon his earnest face, John continued, arms behind his head. “You see, I just started studying under Dr von Helrung when I was thirteen. Pell and I lived under his roof like a couple of exchange students. It was a pretty scary. But I remember that after getting over the fact I no longer lived at home, it was a blast.”

“So why did you have to live with Dr von Helrung?”

John snorted. “My old man hated the fact that I went against his wishes. I wanted to study monstrumology. I was so enthralled by the fact that monsters were real and I wanted to do all I can to chase them down and eradicate them with my own two hands. My mother got infected with toxoplasma from our cat and that’s how I learned about it.

“My dad, however, wanted nothing to do with such a trashy and disgusting profession and instead wanted me to be some cigar-wielding bossman who only chased down numbers. He threatened to rescind funds for my education unless I did what he wanted.”

Chanler grinned wickedly. “So instead, I one-upped the old bastard and threw all that away for what I wanted. Haven’t regretted it since. It’s not like I’m itching to see his mug anytime soon.”

“What about the doctor?”

“Well, Pell’s father was a right old bastard too. Pell was supposed to be studying in some stodgy old British fancy-pants school when BOOM! there he was, just hiding out on von Helrung's doorstep. I remember that because it shocked the bad grades I got that semester clear out of Abram's mind." John laughed and took a swig of his drink.

"Sometimes I swear both Alistair and my old man came from the same mold.” Chanler rubbed the back of his neck. “I guess I shouldn’t say that but then again it’s the truth so what else can I say? I’m just glad that we’re only children. I couldn’t abide anyone else having to hang around those assholes. I still have no idea why those two ever wanted children if they couldn't abide them in the first place.

"But you know, I would love a little patch of kids to call my own. I remember seeing the look on James’ face when he brought you around for the first time. I’ve never seen a man prouder than him in that moment and mind you—I’ve hung around Pell for ages and that guy’s got a head the size of a Goodyear blimp.

“I was pretty jealous of your father a bit there, Will. I can admit that much. But I was also afraid.”

“Afraid? Why would you be afraid?”

“Well, growing up you are what you live. I was afraid I might be like my own father since that was all I grew up with. But then I remembered that for my last bit of growing up, I had Dr Abram. So I thought to myself, ‘Well, if I managed to learn a bit of monstrumology from that man then why wouldn’t I have also picked up on caring for others like he did with me?’ He’s a good man, Abram, and I really look up to him even after all these years. So one day when I do have children, I hope to emulate all that he’s done for me and give that experience to them too.”

Will cradled the drink that Chanler had brought him, feeling the chilled condensation warm beneath his hands. Beyond the room, a door opened and then clicked shut again.

“John? Are you home?”

Chanler got up off the couch and flopped a comic book into Will’s lap.

“Gotta go meet the missus,” he said with a smile. “I’ll call you when we got dinner done so just chill out here, ok? If you want, I’d recommend that right there; it’s my favorite superhero and I think you’ll get a kick out of him too.”

John called a greeting to his wife and left Will alone with his stash of comics and a plethora of thoughts that all jumbled incoherently throughout his head.

Setting aside those thoughts for later, Will began looking at all the comics Chanler had left him that all starred a crimson superhero that seemed to have way too many guns for one man. Idly flipping through the pages, Will was shocked to see that he had quite the mouth on him, words that his mother would surely yell at Mr Chanler for letting Will read; no wonder he never read a comic book before.

After his initial shock, Will flipped back to the front and started reading the story, whetting his dormant boyish appetite for silly violence and a supposed man of justice that enjoyed potty jokes and name-calling.

Completely engrossed in his reading, Will was startled to hear his name called.

“Will Henry?”

“Shh, Muriel. He’s had a tough day with Dr Warthrop being his usual cheerful self.”

“Pellinore? You mean—“

Chanler muttered something and her voice fell to a tinny scrape of disconcertion and disbelief.

Swallowing tightly, Will slipped out of the comfort of the couch, leaving the comics and inching his way to the barely open door. Will eased it open. Still unable to decipher the Chanler’s discussion, Will quietly made his way up the hall until their voices sharpened back into words.

“Once Emily told me what Pellinore had done, I was astonished. It was so highly uncharacteristic of him. I wouldn’t have thought it the same man except what you told me afterwards. It’s hard to imagine his bitterness can last so long.”

“Well, you’ve met my father right? There’s a prime sample there. Not that it’s the same thing with him! I mean…it’s not like either of us are itching to try reconciliation in case we make it even worse than it already is…but he was pretty civil for the most part. It was almost like back before Vienna.”

A soft murmur, followed by a rustle as someone sat down.

“Do you think he’ll change?” Muriel asked.

“I don’t know. I was so relieved that after everything, it was the same Pellinore I remember despite wanting to punch him a couple of times. But it’s as Von Helrung said. He seems…uneasy somehow. Like he’s teetering on a knife’s edge. Though it’s been years so I can be reading him wrong but you know, Warthrop is Warthrop down to the marrow of his bones. Hell, even Will feels it, so I’m not sure what to do or think about it all.”

“He wouldn’t be Warthrop otherwise. No one can really know what to think or do in that man’s presence.”

Chanler chuckled dryly. “No kidding. In all my years of knowing him, I am still astounded by his actions sometimes. Anyway, is dinner ready? I’m gonna call Will over if you don’t mind.”

Tensing, Will quickly escaped back into Chanler’s room, lest he be found eavesdropping.

“Will? You ready for dinner?” John poked his head into the room. “C’mon, we got Thai food for you. Muriel has a knack for knowing all the good hidden food shops so even if you haven’t had this stuff before, it’s pretty good.”

Will bounced off the couch, spilling several of the comics to the ground.

“Sorry, s—“

“No matter, food first! You can get those later; I’ll have the couch made up for you tonight so feel free to read any of the other books I got in here.”

“Thank you."

Will followed Chanler to a small dinner table. He sat to Chanler’s left, right next to the open window where Will could see cars ambling down the darkened streets. Murmurs and the gentle rumble of traffic flowed inside, lending a subdued ambience to the room.

Will looked up when he heard the table being set only to behold a very pretty woman with pinned up auburn hair and warm eyes. She smiled, tucking a stray strand of hair behind a freckled ear as she asked if Will would like to try a little bit of each dish.

Will nodded, stammering out a squeaky, “Yes, ma’am! Thank you, ma’am!”

“My, aren’t you polite?” she said, smiling as brightly as her sparkling green eyes. Then after serving Will and handing her husband the dishes for himself, she held out her hand.

“I’m Muriel Chanler, how are you?”

Will took it, unsure of what to do. So he shook it. “Nice to meet you, ma’am. I’m Will Henry.”

Taking her hand back, she laughed happily and took a seat next to Chanler. “I amend my statement, Mr Will Henry. You are exceptionally polite, like a little prince.”

Flushing furiously, Will scrunched his shoulders, his new hoodie bunching around his reddened ears.

John laughed and thumped Will on the back.

“Muriel’s being a tease—“

She smacked his hand.

“Ow! Anyway, go ahead and eat, Will. Food’s not good cold.”

Snatching up his fork, Will tentatively began eating. At the first taste of food, Will’s body immediately clamored for more, having eaten nothing since breakfast and forgetting his manners, Will began shoveling food with gusto. Though unused to the exotic taste of spices and peanuts melded together, the more he ate, the more exquisite it tasted.

Plate empty, Will hesitated asking for seconds but without missing a beat, Chanler heaped another serving onto his plate.

The Chanlers left Will to eat at his own leisure, talking happily to themselves about each other’s day, much like his own parents always did after being away all day. Muriel worked as an interior decorator and designer for apartments and seemed very pleased with her finished work, exclaiming brightly to John that her clientele was going to recommend her services to their other affluent friends.

John remarked about his own day at work, relaying information about some of his students such as who improved in his studies or who didn’t seem too well that day. He knew a lot about them academically as well as personally, something that Will didn’t know teachers even did.

“Does Clarky still seem like he wants to pursue baseball? I think it’s funny that he’s still going on about that even though his teachers managed to push him away from it since he’s never been good. Does he have any idea what he wants to do once he graduates?”

John stabbed a bit of food with his food and stuffed it in his mouth, eyes fixed on his nearly empty place. He looked up at Muriel. “He knows he’s not good at it but it’s still something he wants to do as a hobby. It’s not like it’ll take away from his studies; the kid’s a sharp lad and I know he’ll do well.”

Muriel smiled. “Well, if you’re sure then I think he’ll do alright then. He’s a pretty quiet guy so sometimes I wonder where he’ll end up.” She looked over at Will. “Oh, Will you’re finished. Would you like some more?”

Will shook his head and thanked her for the meal.

“You are very welcome, Will. I’m quite used to having little visitors over so I always make sure to bring extra. Leftovers are never a problem here!” She laughed and collected Will’s finished plate, piling it under her own. Then tucking her hands beneath her strong chin, she leveled a curious gaze towards Will across the table.

“So Will, how is it living with the estimable Dr Warthrop?”

John raised a brow towards his wife but waiting for Will's answer, she did not notice.

Will fumbled a bit under her scrutiny, folding his used napkin back onto the table. “He works a lot, ma’am. It’s why we are here in New York too; for his work. He’s always very busy with it.”

“Oh, that man is always busy. Can’t have one without the other, else it couldn’t possibly be Dr Pellinore Warthrop. Does he pull you in too?”

“Ma’am?”

“Into his work? There’s no way to get close to the man without falling into the same shackles that bind him as well!” She laughed merrily and took her husband’s empty plate from him as well. “That man threw away the key long ago, so it’s the only way one can be part of his life.”

She left without waiting from a response from Will. As she loaded the dishwasher, murmuring something to John as he retrieved Tupperware from a cabinet, Will had the distinct feeling that in a way, she hadn’t wanted an answer to her question at all.

After helping John pack away the food and wipe the table, he showed Will where the bathroom was. Handing him a pair of large boy’s pajamas, he showed Will how to use the shower and where all the toiletries were.

Upon returning to Chanler’s room, Will folded his old clothes and placed them in a plastic bag that Chanler had left out for Will. Placing his doodle pad on the table, Will returned back to the issue he was reading before.

Not too long afterwards, Chanler knocked and entered, grinning as he had a pair of steaming mugs in hand. Placing them on the table, he plopped next to Will and chucked his feet on the table as well, taking care not to knock over anything.

“I brought us some hot cider. Muriel buys the stuff in bulk and I figured we both nab a bit before it all totally runs out for the season. I hope you didn’t brush your teeth yet.”

Will shook his head.

“Excellent! So Will, how you liking Wade? He’s pretty bad, isn’t he? But that’s what makes him so awesome; he takes no shit from nobody and still gets the job done.”

Picking up one of the other volumes, Chanler then regaled Will with various tales from the infamous mercenary, including one where the man blew up a nuclear power plant and another where he manages to go back in time. Watching Chanler gesture excitedly and flip through various issues to show Will his favorite scenes, Will thought it uncanny how much his exuberance and passion for his interests were exactly like that of Warthrop’s: the bright-eyed look as he shared his knowledge, the resulting grin when Will asked questions and showed interest.

Chanler had told Will that he defied his father in order to follow his interest in monstrumology and given Warthrop’s single-minded passion for the subject, Will wondered what they were like back then, if they stayed up well into the night discussing monstrumology with eager eyes and enthused hearts.

Catching Will yawning, Chanler shooed Will to brush his teeth while collecting their long empty cups and wished him a good night, promising to wake him before eight so they can go out for a true New York breakfast.

Returning to the couch, Will nestled beneath a fleece blanket Chanler had left for him along with a pillow. Brushing his fingers against the soft Yankees logo, Will burrowed his face against the back of the couch and closed his eyes.

It seemed a lot of the heroes in Chanler’s stories had lost parents who loved them, leaving them alone in a world that seemed dark and unfriendly. But as Will felt himself slip into the soft realm of dreamless sleep, he realized for those grown-men, not even they had any answers on what was the right thing to do.

 

*** 


	18. And There They Stood

Something smelled good.

Will kneaded his feet against a soft surface and dozed some more. But the delicious scent was subtle, tickling him half-awake. It reminded Will of when his mother would make blueberry pancakes to lure him out of bed when he felt content to sleep in.

Will grimaced.

That couldn't be right. He already had breakfast, waking up early with Dr Chanler to visit his favorite New York bakery. There had already been a line out the door by the time they had arrived, much like when the teacher was absent and the substitute had somehow forgotten to show up on time. It had been worth it, however, when the small boy saw tubs upon tubs of every imaginable flavor of cream cheese, all fresh like vats of colorful ice cream. For him, bagels were merely a bland thing that grown-ups sometimes ate when they wanted to eat donuts but found they had bagels instead. 

Noticing Will’s indecisiveness in choosing which flavor he wanted (he wanted to try them all), Chanler had bought three different kinds for the two of them. They nabbed a window seat and happily ate their breakfast with pleasure. Chanler had fun pointing out several people and commenting on their New York lifestyle, showing Will a yuppie, Wall Street stockbroker and the local bedraggled professor that Chanler, with a gleam in his eye, said reminded him of Pell at fifty.

It had made Will laugh.

Will snorted at the memory and rolled over, burrowing his face into the couch cushion. Something dry and warm rolled with him and fell on his face. Will's hand fumbled around before he grabbed the offending object. Eyes blinking wearily, he stared at the thing in his hand.

It was a scone.

Will frowned. Sitting up, he rubbed his eyes and looked again, but it still remained a scone dotted with raspberries.

"Well, finally you're up."

The couch creaked; something jostled his legs. Will looked up, astonished to see Dr Warthrop maneuvering Will's feet against his thigh.  Then he reached over to replenish his teacup from a tea service set neatly upon the low coffee table. Even more astonishing was the bulging plastic bag filled to the brim with looked like an entire bakery tray of raspberry scones. A crumb-filled tea saucer lay to the side.  

After preparing the tea to his liking, the doctor leaned back into the couch and gestured towards the table. "I brought you lunch, Will Henry."

Will stared at the doctor. Then back at the overflowing sack of raspberry scones.

"I attended the morning around my old neighborhood in Chelsea, you see. I was quite surprised to see that the same bakery was still there after all these years. As they say, when in Rome...also here." The doctor handed Will the crummy saucer. "You can use that."

Placing his scone on the proffered plate, Will took it and situated himself properly on the couch. After taking a few bites of his lunch, Will found the doctor looking at him curiously. A bit perturbed at finding the doctor at his bedside (and allowing him to sleep no less!) and going out of his way to provide some resemblance of lunch, Will ate slowly. He flicked his eyes to the doctor every now and then, immediately averting them when he saw that Warthrop was continuously watching him as if he was some child observing his new pet.

Finished with the pastry, Will brushed his hands free of the crumbs and laid the plate back on the table. Immediately the doctor thrust a plastic cup into Will's empty hands.

"Try this. They specialize in teas as well. I was glad to note that not only have their baking expertise had remained exquisite as always, but their teas as well."

Will looked dubiously at the milky tea in the cup. The doctor, missing nothing, smiled slightly.

Will poked at the black objects with the large straw, causing them to bounce. Giving the doctor a side-glance, Will took a tentative sip of the beverage. Surprise lit upon Will’s face as he drank up one of the black pearls and found it chewy and delicious with the sweetness of the tea.

Warthrop’s smile broadened at his charge’s outward delight and he relaxed into the couch with his teacup.

"I thought you might like it; it is always youths I find clamoring for those drinks. It is called ‘bubble tea’. Quite rare outside of cities here in the US, it was invented in Taiwan a little more than a decade ago. Not to my taste, really. I find cooled tea to lose its distinctive flavor and the additions of tapioca and jellies I find none too pleasant.”

"Thank you, sir," said Will, placing the half-empty cup on the table. “It’s very good. Like a bit of tea with a bit of candy.”

Warthrop chuckled, hand bracketing his jaw as he leaned on the armrest. Then he turned and caught Will’s hazel eyes upon him. Unexpectedly, the doctor lowered his eyes and set his teacup down. His hands played with the creases in his trousers, worrying the wrinkles at his knees.

"Did you sleep well, Will Henry? Did John keep you up late? He does have a tendency for talking one's ear off into the wee hours when sleep is most vital."

Will tucked his legs beneath him on the couch. He could feel the doctor across the space between them, his body vibrating slightly.

"Yes, sir, I did. But no, he didn’t. We just talked about comic books and he told me a bit about growing up with you at school."

"Did he now? What did he say?"

"He said that you were like him. That your father didn't want you to study monstrumology either."

Warthrop sighed, further disheveling his curls as he rubbed his head. "John is correct in whole, but not in the details. His father was nothing like mine; Archibald Chanler abhorred monstrumology and refused to see the importance of it, so he was appalled when John applied to apprentice under von Helrung. My father, however, was one of the forerunners in the field during the 60’s and early 70’s, contributing much to the study of parasites and even extending its outreach internationally. A branch in Asia was unheard of until a group led by my father established its main headquarters with Duke University in what used to be Malaysia.

“So what John does not understand is that my father had sent me away overseas to 'toughen me up' as the saying goes. He wanted me to be prepared for a most rigorous pursuit into monstrumology. He did not want me to study the subject at that current point in my life. After all, one cannot hunt and study monsters if one is ill-prepared and his body suffers weakness."

"But if you knew that, then why did you go to Dr von Helrung on your own?"

Warthrop looked over to Will, his fathomless eyes burning with some strange emotion. He averted them, staring at his coat hanging by the door. "I've found that people at that age sometimes can become consumed with things that the blinders of youth does not allow them to understand. You, John, I; we all are not exempt from it."

Bracing his forearms on his thighs, Warthrop bent over. His long fingers intertwined with each other and his thumbs tapped an unsteady rhythm. Then with an uncharacteristically chagrined expression, the doctor stole a glance at Will, a twinge set to his lips as if something pained him.

"Did you meet Emily?"

Will shook his head, still unsure of who 'Emily' was, despite the vehement arguments that seemed to shroud her name.

The doctor sagged slightly, forearms falling limp between his legs.

“I did get to meet Mrs Chanler though.”

Those few words had the effect of whip crack, causing Warthrop to shoot straight to the edge of his seat. His thin fingers twisted bone-white as they gripped his knees.

"Is that so?" He cocked his head at Will. His entire being was calm, bereft of any resemblance of emotion besides the gilt of mild curiosity edging his features. "And how was Mrs Chanler?"

"She was very nice." Will smoothed out the hoodie across his lap. "But I didn't really get to see her too much since she had to do some work in her office after dinner. So I mostly stayed with Dr Chanler instead. He showed me around his room; he had a lot of toys and books!” Will popped his head up. “He had more than I ever had. And at his work, he was liked by all his kids; it was like he was one of them too."

Warthrop said nothing for a long, uncomfortable moment.

Then he burst into laughter. Warthrop shook with it, the unmitigated outpour softening his features beneath Will's astounded eyes. A hand swept back hair that flopped into his eyes and tucked them behind his ear. Will drew back at the sight of the young man, deep eyes sparkling with mirth and a restrained grin peeking at the corners of his lips.

“He is, isn’t he?” Pellinore shook his head. “I’ve always told John that. I’ve only known him to be quite childish with his love of pranks and those silly comics of his with all those improbable people in spandex. And to think he hasn’t changed in all these years…but then again, pig-headed stubbornness has always been a defining trait of John, always bursting in hot-headed to save the day and vanquish monsters.”

He crossed his arms and frowned, looking beyond the room. Then he whirled on Will.

"He had always been like that, my friend, John Chanler. Once when I had fallen ill, John kept me company all night, despite my protests otherwise. Even then, when he could have been the least bit considerate in reading the texts and lectures I was missing from school, he plied me with those sordid tales of people who should have died from their radiation dosage than benefited from them. John had a knack for doing precisely the opposite of what was needed or wanted. He could have let me sleep but no! A prisoner shackled to my own bed! I think John delighted at my incapacity to escape."

"I think that was nice of him," said Will, stifling a smile. "He didn't have to."

The doctor snorted. "Nice would have been if he read me my Latin texts he knew were due or the newest monstrumological treatise so I wouldn't fall behind. We did share the exact same coursework. I did the favor whenever he fell ill; not that he appreciated it.

"John didn't have the same propensity for studying as I did. Sometimes I wondered why he entered the field. We were complete opposites, John and I. Whereas I was drawn to monstrumology for a variety of reasons, John really only enjoyed the sport and thrill of it. He often complained of the coursework if it had no direct bearing upon what he wished to learn. But once he graduated, he, like Jacob Torrance, was one of our best field scientists, though it was short-lived. I’ve always held the opinion that if John hadn’t…well, John always had the potential if he continued."

Will thought of John Chanler and how he laughed and played among his students, listening avidly to whatever they had to tell him, from the contents of their pockets to their favorite TV show, as if everything they said were worth its weight in gold. Of how delighted he was with their progress when talking to his wife.

_“But you know, I would love a little patch of kids to call my own…”_

 Warthrop leapt up from his seat, yanking Will from his musing.

"I feel like exploring a bit of this most marvelous city today, Will Henry. Did you know that in all my years of being in this city, I have not visited some of the most iconic sights? Like an office dredge, I wear a path between my residence, the Society and my connections; a watch could be set to my movements so constant is my routine! I was thinking we could visit the Statue of Liberty and commute from Battery Park. One cannot claim to understand the heart of this city without visiting that iconic monument from Bartholdi. What? Why are you looking at me like that, Will Henry? Have I got something upon my face that you find so interesting?"

The small boy shook his head. "Not that, sir. It's just...what about your work?"

Warthrop waved away his concern. "One cannot thrive on work alone, Will Henry. Given an opportunity to visit New York in all her glory, it would be foolhardy and detrimental to not take advantage of it. Tomorrow we can resume our work together."

"I’d like that very much."

Warthrop clapped his hands. “Good! Now snap to, Will Henry! It’s already past noon. Step lively!”

Sliding off the couch, Will folded the doctor's tattered hoodie and straightened up the table. The doctor directed Will to pack some of the scones in his back-pack and to grab his wallet from his coat pocket, as he found the weather warm and favorable and had no need of it. It smelled slightly of tobacco smoke, a comforting scent that he always found pleasant and often reminded him of Mr Morgan.

A few folded slips of cheap paper fell out with the wallet. Will bent and scooped them up, noticing they were receipts. Will went to tuck them back into the doctor’s coat pocket, thinking nothing of it until a sweep of elegant handwriting caught his eye.

Will paused.

Heart hammering, he cast a furtive glance around the room. The doctor was nowhere to be seen and only the steady _tick,tick_ of the mantelpiece clock chirped through the suite.

He looked back at the folded slip of paper. The doctor had been unusual from the moment Will had awakened and even that fact was disconcerting in of itself. Dr Pellinore Warthrop was not a man who waited on others. He took matters into his own hands, even if that meant rousing a thoroughly sleeping child.

Did he dare? Will casted another peek over his shoulder, hiding the paper from view.

_Now or never, Will Henry! You will have to do it now!_

He unfolded the three receipts.

Two were blank but all were from the same place: Bridge Café. Tucking the two others back into the doctor’s coat, Will examined the note on the last one. A puzzled crease fell between Will’s brows as he tried to decipher the writing. Then he realized it wasn’t the handwriting that confused him, but rather that it was in a completely different language.

_Kontaktieren Sie mich hier in Bezug auf die beiden Themen wir besprochen haben._

Then underneath an email address: _r.wittgenstein@sasom.co.de._

“Will Henry, where is my wallet? We’re leaving!”

Shoving the paper back into the pocket, Will scurried to the doctor, nearly bumping into him as he emerged from the bedrooms with a fresh set of clothes.

The doctor raised a brow at Will’s flushed cheeks and took the wallet, tucking it into his back pocket.

“Where are your shoes, Will Henry?”

Flushing harder, Will raced to the doorway and shoved his feet into his sneakers. As soon as he was done, they left. The rosy hue stayed upon Will’s face as he was very excited to be returning back to the streets of New York, this time with Dr Warthrop.

What had Dr Warthrop done while Will had been away? And who had he met while he was gone? Did that person account for the doctor’s behavior?

Sometimes his father acted similarly after a particularly long trip, bringing little things for Will or donating his entire weekend for them to be together— _had the doctor missed him?_

With the kiss of sun back upon his face, Will gathered the flurry of thoughts and tucked them away, his heart and mind leaping to the man at his side. It was the first true day he had with the doctor uninhibited by any mention of work, monstrumology or thought of obligation. Everything burst free within Will at the very thought.

It felt like a dream:  the one he hid secretly deep inside and only took out at night, when there was nothing he could do but mull over and over until all chance of sleep was chased away. That’s when he would take it out like his most precious treasure and roll it in his head until it eroded like sea glass; comforting and beautiful in its familiarity.

It felt like a dream; too good to be happening to him and his world where smoke lived upon his hands and work evolved and multiplied like germs.

The sweet plea of a dream, mutually edacious and piquant that you can taste it as you breathe deep and it, you.  So close as it resides just out of reach, a mere breath’s away, who but those the least human of us can deny it?

Warthrop cut through the throng, parting it with his imposing and self-assured stride. With a spur to his step, Will chased after him, his figure disappearing and reforming like a mirage.

“May we take the subway, sir?” asked Will, catching up to the doctor.

Warthrop looked as though Will asked him to play in something filthy. “Why ever would we take that mode of horrendous transport? Not only is a taxi faster and can get us there directly but the subway is notoriously wretched. Where does your mind frolic to, to garner such ideas?”

“Dr Chanler, sir,” replied Will, ducking his head as the doctor hailed a cab. “I wanted to try it out but we both forgot after breakfast. I really wanted to see the city more and Dr Chanler knew everything about anything! So we just kept walking and then we ended up back here.”

“Does that explain why I found you collapsed mid-morning upon my couch?”

“It didn’t seem like that long of a walk,” mumbled Will, remembered how sore his feet were once he saw their hotel eke into view.

The doctor hummed in his throat and ushered Will to the cab.

"Where to?" asked the cabbie, clearing the cache in her onboard computer with a sweep of her jeweled fingers.

"Battery Park," answered the doctor.

"Ah, you might be wanting to take the subway instead; traffic's backed up that a-ways. Some major collision on Broadway near Trinity so it's pretty standstill. Sorry 'bout that. If you're looking to save on time, you'll want the 4 or 5 line." She winked and pointed to a stairway down the street. "You can get on over there. You two enjoy yourselves!"

Then with a flick of her ebony hair, she pulled back into traffic.

Warthrop scowled at the fleeing taxi and cursed under his breath.  At the look upon the young boy's features, Warthrop exhaled heavily through his nose.

"I see the gods have a wicked sense of humor today, conspiring against me. Or conspiring with you. Whatever the case may be, we'll be taking New York's finest means of hurtling bodies _en masse_. Come, Will Henry. Let us see if you find if your imaginings match up with the reality."

Making their way down the street, they found the underground entrance to the subway where a plethora of travelers expelled out into the street in droves. Jostled and pushed by an assortment of city folk, Will latched onto the doctor, his small hand clutching his sleeve as they edged their way down the labyrinth stairs. At a dirty kiosk, Warthrop bought two day passes (being the cheaper fare) but still griped at the price, despite being cheaper than a one-way taxi fare would have been.

Will enjoyed going through the cage-like turnstiles, though at one point he almost got stuck when it jammed. The doctor had to push the stile behind him, coughing Will out onto the grimy platform. With a metallic screech, a train pulled away from the platform, roaring down the tunnel until it was swallowed in a blaze of light. The air rushed past Will, careening after the train until everything fell silent, save for the static buzz of electricity. An electronic schedule refreshed, signaling the minutes until the next train. Across the murk, the opposite platform had a few people milling about, waiting.

Extremely curious, Will inched to the yellow line edging the platform. It was exceptionally dark, the nothingness spilling out from both tunnel's ends like a weighty morass. It clung to the polished rails along with small piles of garbage and standing water that shimmered greasily. It was disgusting but horribly fascinating, and the whole thing smelled dank and musty, amplified by the stagnant heat. Unable to stop looking, Will watched an enormous rat scurry through the offal, sidling closer to see how far it kept going.  

"Urk!" cried Will as he was yanked back by his shirt collar. The doctor glowered at Will as the boy straightened out his shirt, ears red.

Warthrop crossed his arms tight against his body. He muttered under his breath. Like Will, he seemed to be taking in everything in that muggy subterranean depot. Will caught snippets of his mumbles, though he wasn't sure if his aggrieved mutters of “filthy” and “absolutely disgusting” were directed towards any one thing in particular. He kept shooting furtive glances towards the rat snuffling around in a fetid puddle, to the peeling adverts and to the expanding crowd closing in.

The doctor’s lip curled when a woman with a dog in her purse stopped right next to him. With its bug-eyed stare and lolling tongue, the thing began wheezing on his arm. Warthrop immediately placed Will in-between him and the offending beast, which then began huffing hot breath on Will’s head.

The 5 train rolled up to the platform and as soon as the doors opened, Warthrop made a beeline for the nearest one and snatched Will inside. The carriage was nearly filled to the brim but Warthrop managed to find a seat. He jabbed a finger at Will to sit, leveling a glare at some teenager that tried to sidle into the very same spot. Grabbing hold of metal pole, Warthrop shot one final glare at the teen as she leant up against the closed door and plugged herself to her Walkman.

The train lurched, knocking Will against an elderly woman with her wares. She said something in Korean as he handed her a vegetable that had fallen out of her bag.

Though the doctor stood directly in front of Will, his thin body did not obstruct Will's view completely. Will was enthralled with the sheer variety of people found in their compartment. One man was fully asleep across the way, snoring heavily. A few business men with splayed legs sat near the door, discussing the _Wall Street Journal_. And to Will's infinite fascination, a troupe of musicians in military fatigues sat with their instruments, polishing them and laughing heartedly amongst themselves.

Will covered a fit of giggles when one began tooting into his cornet, which promptly sent Warthrop into disapproving frown. It flew off immediately when the train pitched around a bend and left Warthrop scrambling for the pole with both hands.

For Will, the trip ended much too soon. But once he returned to the surface, everything returned to a kaleidoscopic blur. A sea of business men out on lunch break outnumbered regular pedestrians. Glass buildings faceted like broken quartz shone as monuments to New York's financial district. After a few blocks, the city spat the pair out into a walkway of flourishing greenery trimmed with Victorian lamps. A warm grassy knoll sat in the middle, dotted with people enjoying their day or eating lunch.

Will and Warthrop walked along the edge of Battery Park where it met the waterfront. Will ran up to the railing, getting his first view of the statue that he's ever only seen in pictures. Warthrop come up next to Will and leaned against the railing. Draped over the fence, Will asked about various sites across the hazy blue and with slight smile, Warthrop explained them.

"That's Jersey City. The city of New York works hand-in-hand with the state of New Jersey since it's so close. That? That's Governor’s Island. It used to be an army post and then it belonged to the Coast Guard. But five years ago they shut that facility down. However, I read that a couple of months ago before he left office, President Clinton turned over the historical forts there as a National Monument..."

Checking his watch, they made it in time for the next ferry to Liberty Island. Racing for a prime spot near the front, Will ran ahead of the doctor, wrapping his little body exuberantly around the railing.

Much to Will's horror and the doctor's shock, this proved fortuitous as Will vomited not long after the ferry lurched out into the choppy waters.

Wobbling on shaky legs, Will collapsed on a nearby bench. The doctor directed Will to focus on his breathing and to keep his eyes on the horizon. Gulping down deep breaths, the sloshing queasiness quieted, simmering unhappily in his stomach. Though breathing through his mouth helped, it worsened the sour taste coating his mouth. However, a kindly old woman had seen Will sick-up over the railing and offered a ginger sweet, which Will took with a weak cry of thanks.

Warthrop leaned back over the railing, the spray of sea flitting upon his fingers and the breeze whipping his dark hair. Letting his eyes fall closed, he breathed deep of the saltine air. Both the boy and the man said nothing more, watching as the horizon dipped and swayed.

Landing with a delicate bump, Will and the doctor waited on the ferry until the rest of the tourists and travelers disembarked. While a majority of the people ambled outside enjoying the weather and taking pictures, Warthrop and Will made their way inside, scaling Bartholdi’s masterpiece’s full 377 steps until they made it to her crown.

It was a cramped, tiny space but Will ran up to one of the tiny glass windows nonetheless, pulling himself up by one of the steel buttresses to fully see out. Pressing his face to the window, Will looked out towards the land he had just been walking on hours before.

His breath ghosted against the cool glass. Then vanished. Beyond the fragment of glass, everything looked so small and fragile.

Warthrop stooped over Will as more people clambered up the steps and found their way to the windows as well. His tousled hair brushed against the top as he looked over Will's shoulder out towards Manhattan and Jersey City.  Outside, everything was soft and periwinkle, blending effortlessly into the cloudless sky.

"What are those two buildings over there?" asked Will, voice a near-whisper despite the squeals and excited voices of people surrounding them.

Bending close to Will, the doctor followed Will's gaze. Two buildings wavered in the noon-day haze, the tallest of the skyline, jutting magnificently into the sky where they caught dissipating contrails.

"That, Will Henry, are the World Trade Centers. New York City might not be our nation’s capital but it is undoubtedly the epicenter of our international relations, both political with the UN and financial with the Trade Center. And of course, monstrumological with the Society Headquarters. Many great people have come and gone through those venues to influence the world. Scientists such as Freud, Einstein and Jung have traversed the very same ground we are now standing on. For better or worse, that is all up to opinion. But one cannot deny that many a great and influential thing had happened here in New York that has gone on to influence the world at large.

“That is the thing about New York and America as a whole, Will Henry. All sorts of people come here, poor, unknown, prosecuted, or powerful but it is the same no matter who you are.  You have the right to work to achieve anything you can set your mind to."

They watched planes brush against the sky and the city shimmer across the steel blue sea. Once the room became too stuffy and cramped, they left and returned to the pedestal where the doctor, as with the _YouYou Tu_ exhibition, became lost in the information provided, reading quietly to himself.

Reaching her celebrated plaque, Liberty's words were echoed quietly back to Will, the doctor's voice lending a soft reverence to them. Then they returned outside to gaze out across the ocean, where ships bobbed like inconsequential blots upon the horizon. Small vessels cut to and fro through the overwhelming vastness of the sea, becoming enveloped in the empyreal blue.

The ferry whistled a ten-minute warning and they left, retracing their journey.

It was early evening when they returned back to the Library, which involved a return trip through the subway. It was just as crowded as before. The stifling metal tube was filled to the brim with commuters on their way home from a hard day's work. Men, women and students chattered away or tapped away on their flip-phones.

There were no seats, so the doctor herded Will near the connection door where there was a handrail for him to hold. Bracketing the boy, the doctor watched for their stop at 5th Avenue. The trip was long and exhausting; the doctor complained about ‘infernal devices’ as several businessmen seemingly held conversations with themselves, an earpiece blinking annoyingly in their ear.

They had dinner at the Library Hotel and though hungry, Will only nibbled at the largess of food set before him. Lethargy stole the last reserves of Will's energy as he made it back to the hotel room. Changing into his nightshirt, Will fell asleep on the counterpane, socks still hanging limply on his feet.

***

 

Their last days whirred by as if someone had wound the previous days too tightly and let go, every hour spinning out of control. As soon as Will collapsed on his hotel bed each night, the doctor would shake him awake immediately after, leaving Will feeling as if he hadn’t slept at all, though the harsh morning light that seeped through the curtained windows said otherwise.

They spent their time either at the Society or at the hotel, the former becoming more densely populated with students as exams drew closer and the Graduate Panels came to a close. Some students instantly recognized Dr Warthrop and fewer still worked up the courage to interrupt him.

Will would furtively peek over the laptop as the doctor, though surly and curt, drank up the student’s admiration or praise like ambrosia, with singular nods or mild criticisms, his ego fueled to roaring heights. The doctor basked in it, eyes alight with every stuttering mention of his previous work or specific tidbit from some monograph he wrote years before. Even if they asked about the task in which they interrupted him, instead of snapping back like a dog with his favored bone, the doctor would grin conspiratorially, rub his shadowed jaw and feign ignorance, stating that they shall soon know in half a year’s time.

“Patience is bitter, but its fruit is sweet,” he would reply. Whereas some students would simply smile and thank him for his time, others upon hearing that reply would laugh and nod knowingly before taking their leave. For some reason, Warthrop enjoyed their reactions the best, waving his hand for them to resume their studies rather than the noncommittal grunt the others often received.

At several points during their undertaking of rehauling and building up Warthrop’s dissertation, the doctor would leave for the Monstrumarium or the library for further research, leaving Will Henry with the Herculean task of transcribing his notes and edits into the original Word documents. Will was infinitely glad for technology with every red mark, sheaf of cumbersome notes and nearly tangential adages that the doctor foisted at him. If he had to rewrite each draft by hand, Will would have undoubtedly escaped to the ends of the earth to avoid having to pen out another sentence on the doctor’s unwieldy paper, _Evolution in the Phylum_ Nematoda _or the Emergence of a New Species of_ Ascaris? _An Investigation Regarding Specimens from the Commonwealth of Puerto Rico with an Advantageous Adaptation that Allows for Ascariasis within the Entire Gastrointestinal System, including but not Exclusive to the Stomach, Esophagus and Duodenum to be presented at the One Hundred and Ninety Congress for the Advancement of the Science of Monstrumology._

Hours later, the doctor would return with his arms full of texts, copied slides or scanned documents and spill them out upon the desk. Then he would direct Will towards the bits he had underlined or marked, copious bits of esoterica that had no bearing upon Will save to swarm around in his aching head like the parasites themselves, eating at his brain until Will was sure he had been reduced to a zombified shell of himself.

The doctor was beside himself in pursuit of his work’s completion, shivering from the inside out as if no amount of texts, slides and bits of microfilm as enough to feed the blazing hole for absolute perfection in the piece of work he knew was going to be the defining factor in his entire life’s toil. For Dr Pellinore Warthrop, this was to be the one piece that would land him as a household name upon stranger’s lips, joining the ranks of Einstein, Curie and Newton.

So after stretching his cramped fingers, Will would hunch back over his keyboard like a modern-day monk and take up the mantle of his master’s grand work. Empty glasses of juice and tea grew around the ensconced pair like the stubs of candles. Eyes aching, Will noticed that for a lot of people this behavior was perfectly natural with other students studying tirelessly into the night around them.

When the time came for them to return to the hotel for a meal and perhaps a shower or nap, Will was exceedingly glad as the feeling of being simultaneously grubby and crusty was a severely vexing one.

Friday came with the doctor joining the ranks of millions of students around the world as he slapped down his nearly completed work with a satisfied sigh, grinning as he ordered a final round of tea for himself and his assistant. The only thing missing from his final dissertation was Cooper’s and Penham’s contributions, which Warthrop said would be sent to them once it was finished. Then after adding that and editing it for a final time, his work would be well on its way to the autumnal gathering of the best and brightest of the monstrumological world.

The weekend came upon a cloak of cerulean blue and as Will stepped down onto the New York street for the last time, he felt as if he stepped down from a precipice. All the research Warthrop had needed had been extracted from the bowels of the Society and now resided in his work. They had done it. The doctor and Will. Together he had helped the doctor, just like his father had done before him.

With that knowledge, it felt as if a gigantic weight had been lifted from Will’s shoulders and a tremendous, unknown feeling took its place. Will didn’t know what it was. It both made him feel as light as air while slowly anchoring itself around his heart. It constricted when he breathed deeply, but it wasn’t entirely unpleasant.

On the train ride home, Will and Warthrop sat together, comrades in the trenches of their own thoughts. Outside, the city fell to the horizon, disappearing beyond the glass into nothingness. With a subdued roar, trees swooped in and the city was gone.

Groggily, Will awoke to a window awash in dripping ink, embedded with strings of light. Lifting his head off the doctor's lap, Will yawned and climbed out of his seat, grabbing his backpack and the doctor's valise.

When they made it home to Harrington Lane, Dr Warthrop left his carry-on where he dropped it in the vestibule. The switch clicked on upstairs, ochre tendrils drenching the shadowed staircase.

Leaving the doctor to his ablutions, Will used the one downstairs, washing his face and brushing his teeth. Trudging home, Will past the now-empty bathroom into his attic loft. Will quickly unpacked his bag, chucking his folded bag of soiled clothing into a pile near the end of his bed.

Nestled in-between his new hoodie and dirty clothes was the trinkets he got in New York: one for himself and one for Malachi. John Chanler had got Will a little Yankees figure complete with baseball bat and what made it special was the stand, which as a mini diorama of Manhattan complete with the Twin Towers, Empire State Building and the Chrysler Building. Will set it carefully next to the one for Malachi, a miniature of the Statue of Liberty.  

At the little gift shop on the island, Will had saw it and instantly thought of his friend. Will had shyly asked the doctor to excuse him so he could buy it, and the doctor looked tremendously surprised that Will had pocket money to purchase it. It ended up being incredibly awkward, both Will and Warthrop looking at each other with similarly half-averted gazes until Will took his lack of no as affirmation and bought the gift.

No sooner had Will fallen asleep when he heard the doctor yelling with that uncanny ability to call for him right when he had finally drifted off.

“ _Will Henreeee_!”

Will rushed downstairs, nearly falling over his feet to answer Warthrop’s summons. Racing around the banister, Will completely bypassed Warthrop, who stuck his head out of the study.

“Where are you going, Will Henry? I need you over here immediately!”

Skidding to a halt, Will spun around and joined Warthrop in the study, careful not to tread or knock over any of the heavy tomes laying upon the ground.

“Someone left a message,” said Warthrop, nodding at wall phone, its red blinking light casting strange shadows over the doctor’s face as he scowled at it. “Well, what are you waiting for? Get it to replay the message!”

Will looked up at the phone hanging up on the wall. Then back at the doctor. Sighing inwardly, Will clumsily began toeing the books aside with his feet while he half-dragged the leather chair over to the phone.

Hanging gawkily over Will’s shoulder like some over-grown child, Warthrop watched intently as Will picked up the receiver and tucked it in the crook of his shoulder. The phone droned tediously as Will tried to remember what his mom did to replay the messages his father would leave them.

All he remembered was that she just had to hold one of the buttons down until the answering machine picked up. But he didn’t know which. Hoping the doctor wouldn’t notice and get irritated with his trial-and-error method, Will started on the one and worked his way down.

On the fourth try, Will almost dropped the phone when the doctor snapped, “Well, Will Henry? What is taking so long to retrieve a simple message?”

“Sorry, sir, but your phone is different from the one we had at home. So I’m trying to see what works.”

“Trying to see what works? Have you resorted to the simple-minded methods of a chimpanzee with a stick to ‘see what works’? Sometimes when I think you have the barest showing of acuity—“

The phone crackled, interrupting Warthrop. “You have two unheard messages. Now—“

“Give it to me, Will Henry!” Snatching the receiver from the boy, Warthrop accidentally smacked a button.

“—unheard message,” shouted the phone loudly into the room.

“Will Henry, what—“

“Oh, why Pellinore, it seems you are not home. Is that really the case? Or are you avoiding the phone as usual?  Well then, I shall wish you a most pleasant goodbye.” Then with a chuckle, Dr John Kearns hung up.

Pellinore’s face was frozen for all of two seconds before he ambushed Will in his chair, knocking him onto his bottom.

“Will Henry! What is the meaning of this? When did John call? Did you not hear the phone ring?”

_Beep!_

“I don’t know, sir. Maybe he called when we were gone? We just got home—“

“Yes, yes, but how do I—“

“My dear Pellinore, did you think I would hang up on you without leaving you a fond reason for calling?” Kearns hummed. Then he laughed. “I will be returning soon; a fortnight at the very least. Though if bureaucracy continues its interference, it might be a month. Keep an eye out for my second delivery, will you? I guarantee it will be a most…enjoyable one. I do hope you have the patience to wait, Pellinore, as I am afraid I might find you completely at ends if I leave you waiting too long. I would have left you my number to call me at your leisure, but I don’t think my pride could take your lack of returning my call,” Kearns pouted. “Though if you ask nicely, I’ll reconsider?”

Soft laughter filled the room. “Until then, Pellinore!”

The phone beeped and went dead.

Will peeked at the doctor. Warthrop still held the phone in his hand. Then he replaced it back into its perch with a soft click, silencing it. Chin tucked into his shirt, Warthrop tread the narrow strip of light escaping through the dark and paused at the very edge.

Suddenly Warthrop snapped to, face set into absolute resolution against the outpouring of light. Then without another word, he vanished into the hall.

Will slid out of his chair, hastening his steps to follow but the click of the basement door drew Will to a halt. Night ebbed around the single hall light, cloistering in crevices and in the empty rooms beyond.

Yawning, Will wanted to finish sleeping in his bed. But he knew the doctor’s irascible moods. Though the doctor hadn’t said anything, Will could hear the far-off cry of his name reverberating in his head. So gathering a throw off the chair in the parlor, Will curled up on the couch and went to sleep.

 

***

 

Warthrop didn’t emerge from the basement save for a few times to use the bathroom; otherwise, he remained like a cornered beast with his treasures. The few times Will forged downstairs to ask the doctor if he was needed, were met with growls and barked dismissals as he hunched over this desk to reread the mounds upon mounds of paperwork from their research. Sometimes he found the doctor tinkering with Kearns’ specimens in their macabre prison, observing and prodding the contents in their formaldehyde filled jar.

After a particularly loud snarl at Will’s meddlesome behavior, the boy ran up the steps and shut the door. Swiping at his eyes, Will sagged in his chair. With no other way to bide his time before school started the next day, Will decided to spruce up the house. It kept his mind off the return of the doctor’s bite and allowed him to feel like he was contributing something useful. 

Every once in a while, they stumbled upon each other when the doctor emerged to gather some resemblance of nutrition or to relieve himself. Every time, he asked Will if Kearns’ package had arrived or if the man had called again. And every time, Will answered no.

A few days had passed while Warthrop exhausted all possible venues of his research from Kearns. He called for Will to join him in the basement, where he lectured Will on the proper protocol for sanitizing and cleaning his laboratory while he sat by and watched or mindlessly organized his notes.  Then without another word he left Will there too, uncaring that he walked across the recently mopped floor in his socks.

Warthrop took to his bed and refused to leave his room. He slept fitfully if at all, tossing and turning in the confines of his blankets. It wasn’t Kearns that had arrived first back to that home upon Harrington Lane, but the more sinister of the doctor’s transient companions.

Before leaving for school, Will would check in on the doctor, who more often than not, steadfastly ignored him as he set a tray with tea and his favorite scones on his nightstand. Once he found the man shivering despite the stuffiness of the unlit room and like a mother to her child, placed a spare blanket on him.

School posed its own set of difficulties for Will since he was an entire week behind after his trip to New York. Mrs Feynman had been highly upset that Will was out for so long without a word of warning and then returned without a valid excuse. For her, helping his guardian wasn’t the same as a valid doctor’s note. So on top of the current work, Will had his missing work that he was expected to accomplish as well as teach himself, since he could not stay after school for tutoring.

When Will returned home, the doctor would immediately call out to Will and Will would answer, taking his backpack with him. He quickly learned that he could work while watching over the doctor as he lay in bed. Will would always replenish the doctor’s tray, more often than not with only the tea missing. But Will would still bring food as well, eating sporadically off the doctor’s untouched plate throughout the afternoon and evening.

Will spent hours by the doctor’s side as he lay silently, asleep or not, curled against the wall. Other times he was wide-awake and irritable, complaining and ranting about everything from the sheer absurdity of Sigmund Freud to his relived account of striking down the inclusion of parasitic twins from the monstrumological lexicon. Then like a summer squall, it would abruptly end and he would fall silent, staring at the ceiling as if he exhausted all he wanted to say.

Feet tucked and knees folded, Will would prop his texts in his lap during these moments and diligently work on his schoolwork, attempting to make sense of complex fractions and a few of Aesop’s fables. His soft handwriting and the rustle of his materials were the only source of sound between the two of them, hours going by without one saying anything to the other.

Sometimes Will would look up and find those dark eyes upon him, shining in the single lamplight Warthrop allowed. An amalgamation of something resided within their depths as they watched Will hunch uncomfortably over his works, an unknown mixture seemingly familiar, yet not. Then they would wrench away, as if seeing too much.

Afterwards but not always, the doctor would then ask something of Will. Sometimes he would ask for another pot of tea or for Will to give him the mail. Other times he would ask Will about a subject he had no knowledge of, turning it into a chance to educate Will on things like the relevance of Plato’s _The Cave_ to the advancement of technology in the eradication of parasitic diseases. But on some rare occasions, he would ask Will what he was working on.

Those surprised Will the most. Doctor Warthrop was never lacking in topics and was always quite content to talk about anything and everything he pleased, even if his singular audience was half-asleep from boredom or exhaustion or both. Will, unsure about the doctor’s ultimate intentions, would give the barest summary of his work, hoping the doctor would drop it. But the doctor would roll towards the edge of the bed and urge Will on with an agitated flick of his fingers.

So Will complied, unable to deny the delighted flutter in his stomach. He scooted his chair close and showed Warthrop his work with the exception of his daily journal. Will learned fast that the doctor’s self-proclaimed genius _did_ extend to every inch of his work at school and Warthrop would meticulously obliterate every inch of it with the most thorough of criticisms as if he was grading a protégé’s thesis, rather than some child’s vocabulary sheet or history worksheet.

“Will Henry! Theodore Roosevelt was more than some mere Rough Rider and Trust-Buster! You can’t just answer the question without explaining it; what do those even mean? Did it imply our 26th president was an untrustworthy and uncivilized brawler? You have to write the details! Consult your texts, Will Henry—what do you mean it just says he broke trusts? That’s defining the word with itself! Give it here...why, this book is utter rubbish! From now on, you are to write from what I say. Theodore Roosevelt…”

The doctor found some sort of enjoyment in editing every single bit of Will’s homework along with his chafingly dry lectures, but Will could not deny him, eager to see the man animated back to his usual self.

Despite staying by his bedside for a majority of the day, Warthrop was loathe to excuse the boy from his sight, often only sending him off to bed after he had fallen asleep over the nightstand or curled up in the rocker.

The final weekend in April came with a spray of showers littering the area, allowing Will to refresh the air by opening a majority of the creaky windows. Meanwhile, the doctor had wandered to the bathroom, allowing Will to attend to the laundry, which had overtaken the hampers.

 The rain drummed pleasantly upon the garage, unrestrained pops filling the chilled space while Will dumped all the clothes into the wash. Leaning against the chugging machine, Will allowed his body to go limp. The damp air felt clean and crisp upon his bare skin after being shut in with the doctor for a majority of the time.

Suddenly, Will heard the phone ring.

Its effect was instantaneous. Will rocketed off the washer just as the doctor bellowed from somewhere in the house.

Flinging open the garage door, Will nearly beamed into Warthrop as he barreled into the study, ripping the receiver from the wall. Clutching the back of the chair, Warthrop crammed the device to his ear.

“Dr Warthrop’s residence,” he gasped.

“My, my Pellinore, am I interrupting something? You sound positively breathless,” returned Dr Kearns.

Warthrop snapped to attention. “Not at all, Kearns. I just did not wish to miss your call.”

“Oh, does that mean you were that excited to hear from me? I must confess I feel quite beside myself that you answered the phone so quickly.”

“It wasn’t as if I could have called you myself.”

“And who is to blame for that? Really, Pellinore, I have never known you to answer your own phone calls. Imagine my surprise that it wasn’t the voice of your most devoted assistant on the other end! I truly am a lucky man.”

“I haven’t received your package yet, Jack,” Pellinore said, twiddling the phone cord.

“Is that so? Have you checked your stoop? I have confirmation that it arrived at your doorstep. Perhaps holed up in your lab you didn’t hear your most dependable postman knock? You always do love pointing out the airtight quality of your basement.”

Warthrop threw Will a dirty look at Will, who hid slightly behind the doorway.

“No, I haven’t. I figured my assistant would have heard if there was a caller at my door. After all, I did inform him to be on the lookout for such things as an extension of his duties.”

Kearns chuckled. “Well, then perhaps you should check, mm? If what you find is lacking, then you’ll know who to complain to! It’s not a package that you can leave for too long—you might find it missing! Especially in this weather.”

Still holding the phone, Warthrop awkwardly maneuvered himself into the vestibule, cord stretching taut.

“Fine, you can be the one to file the charges if the postal system is at fault. I still have a complaint to file with you about that last caller you sent me…” Warthrop trailed off as he pulled the latch and worked the door open. His brows furrowed.

“Wait, what do mean—“

The phone clattered to the ground and flew back into the study.

Warthrop stared, slack-jawed beyond the half-open door where flecks of misty droplets whirled inside. Then he fully swung it open, gold filtering into the grey.

And there, against the tarnished veil of spring rain, stood Dr John Kearns.

 

***


	19. A Stray's Quay

With a little laugh, Kearns snapped his phone shut, tucking it into his pocket. He stepped up to Warthrop, until he was nearly nose to nose with the doctor.

"I have left you quite speechless, mm, Pellinore? Perhaps there is something to arriving on one's doorstep, if this is the welcome I am guaranteed to receive!" Kearns' grey eyes sparked as Warthrop snapped his mouth closed into a grimace. The doctor wavered slightly as if he had something to say. Then he spun towards the boy at his side.

"Will Henry! Put the phone back on the wall!"

Will hopped to do what Warthrop asked, feet thumping against the floor. Kearns grinned, taking a step back to peer around Warthrop's shoulder as the boy vanished into the study.

"Was that a smidgeon of a smile I saw on your young assistant-apprentice?" Will came back to the doctor's side, fidgeting with his shirt and Kearns' smile brightened monstrously. "Why Pellinore, I do believe it is! Not only do I get a sentimental farewell, but a similar welcome too! Goodness Will Henry, does that mean you are also happy to see me? I do profess that my presence does liven up this dreary residence with much-needed cheer."

Warthrop crossed his arms. "What do I need of cheer? It is not Christmas," he grumped.

Kearns laughed outright. "What indeed! Pellinore, sometimes I think you just love your role as the residential boogeyman. But to more pressing matters. Will Henry, could you take this cooler down into the basement?" earns stepped to a small pile of baggage and grabbed a small medical cooler, placing it in Will's hands. "There is an icebox near Warthrop's medical desk that you can stash this in—there's a good lad! Now, quickly, quickly! Else it shall only be good as fertilizer!"

Hugging the box to his chest, Will adjusted it in his arms and shuffled back into the house with his burden.

Warthrop kept watching Kearns, standing upon the edge of the doorway. Mist draped over the interstitial breadth between them, dotting the pock-mocked wood in lilac. A slight breeze picked up, rustling the bushes, their leaves dipped in violet. He had brought with him the world at his feet, pools of it scattered like broken heather. Beyond the veil, the rain droned on.

The doctor shifted on the threshold, hand brushing against the wall.

“Why are you wet?”

Kearns raised a brow. Glancing at his shirtfront, he plucked at his damp clothing. “It would seem the cabbies here are directionally challenged. My particular one unfortunately dropped me two blocks from my destination. Not as refreshing as the movies would like you to think.”

Warthrop poked his lip. “You scared him, didn’t you?”

“Now Pellinore, that is most unfair. He was frightfully boring! Any more of his drivel about the weather or the upcoming blueberry festival and I fear I would have expired on the spot. That would not do. So I decided to perk up the poor fellow with some engaging tales, not that he appreciated them in the slightest! One would think the man grew up without any sort of scintillating literature. Now, are you going to invite me inside, or shall I have to wait here like some stray?” Kearns fluttered his lashes. “I did arrive on your doorstep like a perfectly behaved gentleman; James would be so proud.”

Pellinore scrunched up his face, which earned a delighted laugh from Kearns, and stepped aside to allow him in.

Scooping up his burden, Kearns entered, barely brushing against Warthrop. Detouring to the parlor, Kearns rolled the heavy bag off his shoulders with a loud thump. Giving his sore muscles a quick stretch, Kearns rejoined Warthrop in the hall.

Noticing him peeking into the room, Kearns explained, "Reports and laundry. It'll be better to unpack it here rather than upstairs, don't you think?"

Warthrop grunted. "Now, about your—"

Kearns shook himself vigorously, scattering droplets in the hallway. Warthrop scowled, face flecked with water. Swiping his face with one hand, Warthrop tried to say something but Kearns did it again, grinning at the man devilishly. 

“Could I trouble you for a towel?” he asked, allowing the question to roll off his tongue as a purr.

Before Warthrop could snap an answer, Will appeared and handed one to Kearns.

“Why, thank you, Mr Will Henry!" said Kearns, snagging the linen and buffing his hair dry. "Has my package been safely ensconced in Warthrop’s basement?”

When Will nodded, Kearns laughed and patted Will’s head. “You are a most valuable assistant, Master Henry!”

Warthrop stepped in front of Will, cutting their tête-à-tête short.

"Kearns," he growled. "What did you bring?"

Kearns wrapped the damp towel about his shoulders, humming to himself. He tapped a finger to his chin as if he was considering the question. Then he snapped his fingers.

"Ah! If I'm not mistaken, there's the entirety of an upper digestive tract in there with what seems to be the relatives or progeny of the ones I brought last time."

Warthrop straightened. "You mean your specimen not only includes the stomach but the esophagus and duodenum as well?"

"Well, it’s certainly not a country picnic for two in there! That is, unless you relish that sort of thing. Speaking of which, do you have anything to eat?" Kearns glanced around as if there was suddenly food to be had in the dingy and empty hall.

"I was preparing some tea, sir," answered Will.

"Well, that too, I suppose. A spot of tea does sound spectacular. But could you prepare something as well? I am positively famished!"

Despite the agitated scowl leveled at Kearns and Will for being constantly being interrupted, Will nodded and left immediately to rummage in the kitchen for something to prepare. They only had a few provisions left in their meagre kitchen since Warthrop hadn’t done the shopping for their pitifully bare larder. Will was no cook, only knowing how to use a griddle for simple fare, but luckily there was still some bread and cheese. While he busied himself preparing another burner on the stove, Kearns walked in with Warthrop nipping at his heels.

"How are you not even sure of what you have, Jack? How is that possible? What if it's absolutely useless? How could you have not checked the contents of your own conveyance? "

Kearns flopped into the ladder-back chair but Pellinore refused to take the other seat, anxiousness escaping his parted lips with short puffs of breath. Kearns leaned his head against back of the chair, eyes closing as he rearranged his long legs beneath the table. 

"I’ve been shipped out faster than some royal by-blow. Threw me aboard a C-180 with only that and my bag for company without a by-your-leave. Absolutely dreadful.”

Shock erupted across Pellinore’s face. "That's a military aircraft, Kearns! What the hell happened?"

Kearns threaded his fingers into his hair, pushing the damp strands back. "As much as I'd love to tell you, the whole lot of it is under lock-and-key. Oh, don’t look at me like that, Pellinore. I can tell you that it was more than what was originally anticipated. Actually, you have your little friends there to thank for my expedited arrival. They haven't been dead for more than half a day."

"They are that fresh?" 

"Indeed. I just arrived about three hours ago from Hanscom AFB and had about a four-hour flight before that. So about seven hours _en-route_ , plus the time frame for the harvesting." Kearns grinned and took a sip of the hot tea Will prepared for him. He tipped the mug appreciatively in the boy’s direction. "Excellent as always, little assistant-apprentice!  Just as I like it, thank you."

Waving away his own proffered cup, Pellinore bore down on Kearns, eyes flaring to a fever pitch. "How in the world did you get involved with the US military, Jack?"

"Well, I can tell you that your name is apparently very prominent in certain circles. Mostly the Marines. Though that’s probably because that was the most competent branch there. It’s thanks to them why you were actually able to receive this particular sample at all. The corpses were burned and stuck from the roster with such acute precision one would expect from the world’s most influential nation. Thank goodness for the name of Warthrop!”

"But the US military?” Tightly wound to the point where he shook, the doctor began pacing. “Are you saying they remember my father's service to them? I thought that was top-secret. There wasn’t anything he told me about it besides its existence, even years after the fact."

"Perhaps? I wouldn't know. All I do know is that as the only soul with the surgical and moral dexterity in the whole vicinity, I immediately replaced the incompetent fool they had languishing out there. How they even found the poor bugger, much less hired him is lost on me. After rounding up the strays, we received a tip and came across an isolated pandemic of the things. I did my best but they were intolerably efficient at disposing of the bodies. So I simply placed a bug in my attendant’s ear about a dear friend of mine with the _most_ extraordinary of talents regarding this very same class of parasites. And before I could heave out another squirming handful, I'm on the next transport plane out with a freshly removed specimen for your eyes only."

Pellinore nodded. “I am thankful for the expediency of its arrival then. I admit I am relieved it was you that arrived on my doorstep; your last man was absolutely atrocious. Whatever gave you the impression that man was remotely trustworthy with such important documents?”

“Who? Oh, you mean Jimmy? I quite liked the fellow. Can’t remember where I found the guy. His teeth reminded me of that one song…oh, you know the one!” Kearns eyes fell closed as be began humming a tune.

“That man almost assaulted Will Henry!”

Kearns turned to Will, eyes wide. “What? Our dear Will Henry?” he repeated in mock astonishment. Then he turned back to Pellinore. “How’d you let that happen, Pellinore? If Booby Morgan comes around again, I shall have to completely lay this upon your shoulders.”

“What! That was your man!” Pellinore jabbed a finger in Kearns’ direction. “And I said _‘almost’_. I foisted that good-for-nothing vagrant off the premises, so no harm was done.”

“Oh, well done! And here I was laboring under the impression you didn’t have it in you.”

“You mean you did that on purpose?”

“Come now, Pellinore. I’m not _that_ much of degenerate.  He just happened to be the only trustworthy man out there with eyes and lips can be sealed with a bit of cash.” Kearns leaned his chin on his hands, peering up at Warthrop. “So how much did he peel out of your stingy fingers?”

“I’m not even answering that, Kearns.”

“Oh ho! He must have swiped a good amount then! The scoundrel!” Kearns guffawed. Then he spotted Will at his elbow, small plate in both hands. “Ah, Will! What do we have here?”

Will looked down at the plate. Then he placed it clumsily on the table, pushing aside a few stray pens and pencils, while mumbling something.

“I didn’t quite catch that,” said Kearns.

“It’s a sandwich, sir. A grilled cheese. Well, I mean there’s two since you said you were really hungry and there was enough. I can make more if you need it.”

“A grilled cheese! And not one, but two! Why, Will Henry, you are quite the gourmet chef! Warthrop, I suggest you hide this little Swiss-Army knife of an assistant you have here, else everyone will be wanting one!” Plucking one of the sandwiches off the plate, he took a tremendous bite. Kearns devoured it as if he hadn’t eaten in days; the first sandwich disappeared in seconds. Snagging the other one, Kearns thrust his empty mug and plate at Will, asking for a top-up of each.

“But, yes, back to the roundworms—scrutinized like a specimen myself!” said Kearns, mouth full of sandwich. “You’d think they didn’t trust me. But to be fair, I am a contracted civilian. I’m immensely relieved to find that my first draft of notes made it to you intact. Had to forego a couple of pleasantries to get that to you. Those were the only ones I had, you know.”

“They were most precipitous in furthering my research. But what caused the outbreak?”

“Not sure. It started out as standard procedure. We interviewed the boy’s leftover family; found some infected individuals here and there. They interrogated and I operated. Luckily for a majority of them, they returned back to their pedestrian lives wormless, at the price for silence and cooperation in the case. But then Roosevelt Roads received news of an outbreak in some remote part of the island and our whole expeditionary force was rounded up to help.” Kearns shrugged, wiping the back of his hand across his lips. “I have my notes on that, though it might not be as thorough due to all the back-and-forth of the whole operation. From what I can tell, they are pretty much the same exact thing as all the others. They just happened to all want to pop out of their hosts at once at that moment. Not sure why it happened that way; many were too far gone to save.”

Kearns snatched up the new grilled cheese before Will had even placed it on the table. Pellinore had resumed pacing, tapping his thin finger against his lip as he shuffled back and forth.

“So this could be the last sample?”

“Perhaps. Population-wise, there were only less than a hundred affected. They contained it ruthlessly over there. But that’s the beautiful thing about parasites, isn’t it?  Where there’s prey, they will always be more.” Kearns grinned wickedly above his tea. “It’s more likely this is last sample from this particular outbreak.”

Pellinore ceased pacing, back towards the kitchen as he stared out the window to the grey-shroud backyard. Kearns returned to finishing his meal, draining another cup of tea in the process. As soon as Warthrop spied that the man’s plate was empty, he pounced.

“Let’s get to it then, Kearns! Given this remarkable stroke of timely luck, I need to see this for myself! If you have what you say, then I believe I will owe you more than my sincerest thanks. Oh, John, there is so much that I have accomplished while you were away!”

Kearns looked up at Warthrop, who was practically vibrating from the tips of his toes to his unkempt hair. “My, that is a debt I hope you pay in full, Pellinore.”

“Come, come!” the doctor commanded. There was an excited quaver to his voice that stretched down to his hands, ready to pluck his friend straight out of his chair.

Kearns laughed quietly, eyes falling closed. His lashes were intensely dark against the smudges beneath them. “My dear Pellinore, you could reanimate the dead like that. But I’ll have to excuse myself first; I shall join you shortly.”

Pellinore looked as though Kearns threw tea in his face. “You’re leaving?” he asked, incredulity smacking the excitement right out of him.

“Not at all. I just find drenched clothing a tad bit too uncomfortable for my tastes.”

“Oh.” The doctor seemed at a loss what to say. Then he straightened and returned in a terribly dull voice, “Will Henry and I shall await you in the basement.”

“Oh Pellinore, you very remarkably remind me of an old English valet doing that. Bloody well done!”

Warthrop huffed and shooed Will into the basement. With one final look at Kearns, Warthrop tromped down the stairs after Will, barking orders at him to prepare his instrument tray, find his smock and boots, and to prepare various jars with preserving solution.

The man moved about in a whirl of motion, throwing on the smock as soon as Will found it, crisply jerking it taut against his lean shoulders and swiftly doing up the buttons. He constantly flicked his eyes towards the little boy as he jogged to and fro in the white-washed cellar, gathering empty jars and placing his boots within reach. Joining in, the doctor began to retrieve their old notes and observations, plucking them from the slightly organized piles with a quick discerning eye.

Remembering what happened last time he was charged with important tasks regarding dissection, Will nervously asked the doctor how to prepare the jars and what tools should be on the instrument tray.

With an aggrieved sigh, Warthrop threw a few clipped orders over his shoulder, directing the small boy to the bottom specimen cabinet where all his chemicals were stored. Will learned fast, scrambling to nearly all the drawers, cabinets and sink area to retrieve everything the doctor demanded.

While the doctor leaned against the stair rail, wrangling on his pair of clunky boots, Will returned to the instrument tray with a liter of ethyl alcohol. The stench of formaldehyde tangled in the air as Will uncapped the bottle and began swabbing the instruments with dabs of cotton. Then he poured out a fresh beaker of it, snapping the air with its stringency.

Directing Will to stand slightly behind him to the side with the wheeled instrument tray, the doctor wiggled his fingers into a pair of medical latex and adjusted the mask on his face, until only his fever-bright eyes blazed above the sterile material. Grabbing hold of the mounted ceiling light with an outstretched arm, he maneuvered it until it glared over the scrubbed steel.

When Will heard the familiar click of the small fridge being open and shut, Will tamped down the surge of fear and nausea that clawed up his throat. The pang of chilled blood eroded upon his tongue as he breathed too rapidly, instantly staring into the glistening dribbles of viscera that clung to pale worms.

He clenched his eyes shut.

He would be seeing the exact same thing again. Perhaps with more if what Dr Kearns said was correct. Will swallowed rapidly and his stomach felt as if a dozen worms thrashed inside. But he could do this.

The doctor carefully placed the container on the table and began working the latch.

Taking the doctor’s advice from the ferry, Will fixed his eyes on the instrument tray, focusing on the gleam of the pristine tools. The doctor needed him; isn’t that why he was here?

The pungent smell of deceased matter flowed cloyingly from the table. Soon those tools would be flecked in blood. And the table. The doctor’s hands. His smock. Would the whole room be covered in blood? Why did the color red seem to bathe everything? Glistening, hot, charred flesh—

Will jerked his eyes to the table. With a sickening squelch, the organs slid out into Warthrop’s hand, cold and dotted with gobs of blackened blood. They smeared thinly across the surface, steeping his hands with a veil of red.

Will’s head swam.

Black. Not the same. Red. _Not the same!_

“—Henry?”

Will’s head snapped up. He found the doctor staring at him, brows drawn.

“You aren’t going to faint again, are you?”

Will vehemently shook his head, the doctor’s words churning helplessly in his gut. He wasn’t going to disappoint the doctor ever again. He couldn’t allow that. He couldn’t. The doctor wanted him here, by his side. _He was needed._

“No, sir.”

“Good boy. You are no good to me unconscious and I have tremendous need for you tonight. Our duty is to progress and science. Like the ever vigilant foot-soldier, we shall march on! Yes, Will Henry?”

“Yes, sir,” gulped the boy, wondering if he should have asked for a mask too since the alcohol, preserving solution and decaying organs were making a noxious tincture in the back of his throat. But all chance of asking for one was quelled as the doctor began his work.

“Now, Will Henry, as my assistant it is crucial that you can identify every instrument that I require. It is exceptionally true when time is of the essence in such situations as what Kearns was describing, or if the specimen must be kept alive and extracted carefully without risk or damage to the sample we require.”

Will reeled at the very idea of working on or extracting anything that was still alive and kicking. His elbows clamped to his sides, hands strangling the notebook in his hands. But the doctor remained oblivious to his young assistant’s distress, rattling off the various tools on the tray with a jab of his finger at each.

“And those are the forceps, of various sizes for the task at hand. Same as the scalpels; each blade has a different size and shape—see? These are retractors that we use to hold open tissue, ribs or skin. These you know—we’ll need to record all the measurements of this particular gastrointestinal system as well as the individual worms so we can compare to Kearns’ previous notes and the former collection. See here, Will Henry! It’s just as I expected! They have expelled upwards through the esophagus!”

Warthrop prodded the rubbery tube at the end of the bloated pouch that Will now recognized as a stomach (it was bigger than the one before), and flopped it towards Will. Emerging from the tiny, tight opening was several strands of worms, looking remarkably like clogged spaghetti.

“It seems that once their environment becomes too cramped, these worms don’t simply become expelled through waste or pile up, causing intestinal blockage. As I hypothesized, it wasn’t a mere quirk before; they migrate upwards having adapted to the stomach as well—though I will have to ask John about that to substantiate the claim.”

Pellinore paused, looking about the room as if expecting his friend to randomly pop out like a demented jack-in-the-box. Then he shrugged, muttered something and continued.

“As I was saying, we now have proof, Will Henry, that these worms don’t just live in the intestines like typical roundworm or just inhabit the stomach like we saw last time, but that they can live in _both_ environs! Truly remarkable! To think they have adapted to extend their parasitical grip on their host.”

Taking one of the scalpels and pinning the stomach as if he was about to cut into a casserole, Warthrop made a single effortless incision into the squelching mass. Will flinched.

“What do you mean by that, sir?” asked Will, desperately seeking to cover the sound.

The doctor tossed an irritated glance over his shoulder before resuming his work. “You will have to elaborate; I don’t follow your pedestrian line of inquiry, Will Henry.”

“What do you mean by ’extending their grasp’?”

“Precisely what I meant in the first place, Will Henry. Parasites by their very nature feed off of their host, and once the host no longer is suitable they either die or have to move. It has always been part of evolution for both the host and parasite to evolve together, with one evolving to better thrive and live off their host and the other evolving to better expel or protect themselves from the parasite. Not unlike a pair of terrible roommates.” Pellinore fished around on the tray for a couple of retractors, snorting at his joke.

“Roundworms keep propagating until they die and are expelled through vomiting or through fecal matter or as in more fatal cases, simply overwhelm the host body until it dies from malnutrition or intestinal blockage. These worms here, in order to thrive longer and more numerously, have evolved to live in the acidic and cramped chamber of the stomach. Now whether it has built resistance to the modern medications to eradicate them remains to be seen...”

Elbows working the air furiously, Warthrop pinned and maneuvered the bits of flesh around the table, beads of sweat dotting his brow with the effort. Then with a cry of accomplishment, he took a step back and admired his handiwork.

“There! Now, Will Henry, grab the camera. It’s in the top desk drawer. I would like to retain visual evidence before we disturb the worms further.”

After disposing of his gloves in the small bin under the table, the doctor took a few pictures of the exposed digestive tract, bending over the specimen and snapping away as if it was a grisly crime scene. Which for the little boy perched upon the stool, seemed very much so.

Depositing the camera back on the table, Warthrop stretched his cramping fingers. Shaking them, he went to pull out a fresh pair of gloves from the box by his desk. He halted by Will, who glanced up, catching the downward swipe of his brows. Then with an agitated yank, Warthrop ripped off his mask.

“I have no idea what is keeping him, but it seems I shall have to retrieve our wayward doctor.”  He flung the mask into the bin. Then stomping up the stairs, Warthrop marched out of the basement.

Will tossed his notes on the doctor’s desk, racing to catch up with the doctor as he called out, “Kearns! What are you up to?”

With the kitchen empty, he trekked to the hall and bellowed again up the stairs. There was no answer. Finding Will nearby, Warthrop barked at the boy to check upstairs for the missing man, but a few minutes later, Will came down minus one grinning doctor. Will pointed out that Kearns’ guest room had no trace of the man having been back in it.

Warthrop drummed his fingers on the banister. “If he’s gone on another one of his jaunts, I’m strangling him.” He flexed his hands as if he was seriously contemplating the threat.

“If he’s not upstairs and his things aren’t either, maybe he’s with them?” ventured Will.

The doctor considered Will’s suggestion, bottom lip snagged between his teeth. Then spinning on his heel, Warthrop strode into the dusk-filled parlor. But as soon as he stepped over the threshold, he stilled, blocking the doorway.

Not sure what was going on, Will peered around Warthrop.

Kearns half-lay upon the couch, one leg braced against the ground and the other tossed over the armrest. His soft hair wisped about his face as he breathed steadily, face slightly pressed into the back of the couch. He was in the most complete state of dishabille Will had ever seen, his shirtsleeves untucked and unbuttoned and without any socks upon his feet. His pack lay open nearby and several sheaves of paper littered the ground. A few remained beneath his hand that lay upon his stomach. If it wasn’t for the steady rise and fall of his chest, Will could have sworn the man had keeled over on the spot.

Without saying a word, Warthrop carefully walked up to Kearns, the waning glow from the curtained widows illuminating the paperwork scattered at the doctor’s feet.  His eyes fell upon his friend as he continued to sleep.

Warthrop plucked at his lip. He rubbed his chin, cocking his head to the side. He bent over Kearns’ prone form, a look of intense concentration upon his stubbly face, the same look Will had seen when the doctor hovered over the desecrated remains of the poor soul in his basement. 

Then without warning, he poked Kearns’ face.

Alarmed, Will hurried over to the doctor’s side.

“Sir, why are you doing that?” he hissed.

“Hmm? What does it look like? I am checking to see if he’s awake.” Then he did it again.

Kearns grimaced and flung out an arm, smacking Warthrop square in the face. Warthrop let out a muffled cry, jerking upright. With a petulant frown, Warthrop stared daggers at Kearns’ hand as it swayed slightly, brushing the rug. Even in the dimness of the parlor, Will could see the charcoal smudges beneath Kearns’ eyes and the relaxed set of his lips.

“I don’t think you should keep doing that, sir,” replied Will softly.

“I can see that, Will Henry. Must you always point out the obvious, as if I am some dullard?”

“Sorry, sir.” Will looked around. “Are we going to leave him there like that?”

“No, Will Henry, I was merely planning on hoisting Dr Kearns over my shoulder and hauling him down into the basement. Of course we are going to let him rest here! We have to. The man is as stubborn and immovable asleep as he is awake.” Warthrop rubbed at his face. “I would have warned you of Kearns beforehand if the blasted man hadn’t burst in like a stray firework in a DuPont factory. Dr Jack Kearns is the most obstreperous and exasperating man I have ever had the fortune to become acquainted with. And I am of a field that attracts such men by the droves. But in all my years, no one holds a candle to Dr Kearns!”

Huffing, Warthrop tugged free the throw from over the armchair and threw it over Kearns, completely covering him from head to toe as one would a dead body.

“Warn me? But then why are you friends with him?”

The question seemed to catch Warthrop off-guard, but it was hard to tell: he hadn’t moved an inch save to regard Will, his dark eyes fading into the gloom.

“Dr Kearns is extraordinarily good at what he does. His temperament might be something different altogether, but that does not eclipse the knowledge and prowess he has obtained in his field. It was the case too, when I first met him all those years ago.”

Will glanced towards the blanket. Then back to the doctor. “What does he do? You study monstrumology, sir, and my father helped you but…Dr Kearns, what does he do? Who is he really? Is he a monstrumologist too?” Will thought about all the other monstrumologists he had met in NYC: Dr Penham, Mrs Cooper, Dr Ainesworth and Jacob Torrance. It didn’t seem far-fetched that Kearns was one of them as well, especially given the macabre gifts brought tucked under his arm as if they were no more than a box of candy.

Warthrop ushered Will out of the parlor into the kitchen, directing him to put on the kettle before resuming the conversation.

“He is not a monstrumologist, no. Though if he wanted to, he wouldn’t be out of place. But Kearns isn’t one for the research the field requires. If I had to label him with a profession, then he is a surgeon—that is what his papers say. And a brilliant surgeon I might add; you saw the ravaged state of that specimen downstairs, did you not? Hacked as if they were planning on using it for dinner! Nothing like the skilled precision I have come to expect from Kearns.  It’s a shame they had not allowed him to procure this sample himself…”

The doctor fell silent to his thoughts, leaning against the counter as Will finished preparing their tea. Will handed him his cup which Warthrop took, the soft curls of steam coursing through the air. He breathed deep, allowing the heat to caress his face. Will stood next to the doctor, his own hands wrapped around his large mug.  

Then gently placing his unfinished cup upon the counter, Warthrop went to the basement. He paused at the opening, one hand against the wall.

“Come, Will Henry. We have a long night ahead; are you ready?”

“Yes, sir.” And setting his own cup aside, Will followed the doctor back into the basement.

 

***

 

Will trudged downstairs, face freshly washed and clean clothes upon his rested body. A muted pastel light tinted the foyer in pallid hues, popping into puffs of iridescent sparks at Will’s feet.

Arriving in the kitchen, Will snagged his bag from the wall and plopped it in the doctor’s chair. After double-checking his backpack, Will prepared a full breakfast of toast and jam, twisting open a brand-new jar of raspberry preserves. Ripping open a box of cereal bars, he snagged one and zipped it into his pack. After eating his breakfast and downing it with a glass of milk, he washed his dishes and put them away, feeling pleasantly full.

Pack perched on his shoulders, Will glanced towards the open basement door where murmurs could be heard, nestled softly beneath the feathering light. Will paused half-way to the door. Then turning abruptly, he quit the doctor’s house and walked to the bus stop.

As always, Malachi was there, happily waving Will over while Sarah strolled along the curb, collecting clovers. Lizzy was nowhere to be seen and when Will asked, Malachi informed her that she had an allergy attack that weekend so she was going to the doctor instead of going to school.

“Is she allergic to cats?” asked Will, taking a seat next to the older boy. “Someone in my class can’t be around them at all. Their nose runs and they say that their eyes get very itchy.”

Malachi handed Sarah a couple of clovers as she sat next to him and began chaining them together. “We aren’t really sure, but father says that since it came up with spring and all, that she’s probably allergic to pollen from flowers. She’s never had it before though, so that’s why mother is taking her today. I couldn’t imagine not being able to go outside without getting all itchy and sneezy like Lizzy.”

“Me neither,” piped up Sarah, testing out her flower crown.

“Anyway Will, are you excited for the lab today?”

Will hugged his pack on his lap, resting his chin on it. “I don’t know. I kind of wonder if it’ll be like what the doctor taught me, since he’s got a lab too. But I’m worried I might mess up or something.”

Malachi smiled and patted Will on the back. “They were pretty good for us! They did these cool experiments with chemistry, so I think it’s the same for you. They had this really wicked experiment where they had these metal cans and they got them to implode! They just stuck them in some cold water and boom! The can was crushed instantly like magic!”

Interested to hear more, Will asked Malachi to elaborate and happily, the older boy obliged as they waited and through their bus ride, until they arrived at the high school. Malachi waved a cheery goodbye to Will before leaving to join his friends, immediately chasing after one that pointed and laughed at the crown of flowers on his head.

Arriving at his own classroom, Will turned in the paper he worked all last week on while Dr Kearns was busy with Dr Warthrop, which allowed Will to tend to his own work without having to worry about the doctor. He hoped it was acceptable because even though he tried to work on that particular assignment without letting either doctor see it, Kearns had spied the webpages he had up on Warthrop’s laptop. There was no stopping the man after that.

Kearns had plopped himself next to Will, discussing the finer points of Dada and Russian Constructivism with him for the rest of the morning, while Will made lunch and while they ate. It wasn’t until Warthrop bodily tugged Will back into the basement to help with emails, since he had the foresight to have the computer ready, that Kearns finally let him go free.

Once again, it felt incredibly strange not to constantly be by the doctor’s side at all hours of the day. Sometimes Will’s legs itched to propel him right back to the stool in basement where he had taken notes and dictation on all matter of things from the lengths and widths of the 67 worms, the weight and volume of blood of their home, to paragraphs describing the scene upon the table.  But when Warthrop would emerge regularly from the basement with Kearns in tow, the man teasing and laughing at the doctor’s expense, Will would feel a strange unwinding; a tight noose falling slack upon the ground.

Though Kearns was a menace, popping in and out at all hours of the day, he also was exceptionally obstinate, bowling over any and all protests from Dr Warthrop as if they were no more a half-hearted protest. Splotches of color would scatter across the doctor’s face whenever Kearns forced him to partake of mundane activities such as eating and washing up. Sometimes Warthrop stood his ground and refused, hiding out in his basement or glaring at Will and Kearns at the table as if that would make them eat faster. Will discovered after a couple of meals with the incorrigible Dr Kearns, that he would purposely savor each bite and engage in lengthy conversations to needle Warthrop until Will was sure Kearns might find a buttered roll hurled at his head.

Last week Will had come home to a most unimaginable scene as if writ directly out of a madman’s dreams. Rooted to the spot, completely and utterly flabbergasted, Will watched in horrid fascination as Kearns cut the hair of a surly Dr Warthrop, who squirmed and complained upon Will’s writing stool.

Finally spotting Will as he put the finishing touches to Warthrop’s hair, Kearns perked up with a grin. “Ah, the young student wanders home! How was your day, Mr Assistant-Apprentice?”

Nearly knocking the shears from Kearns’ hands, Warthrop bolted off the chair. He whipped off his stained smock, knocking hair everywhere while Kearns tsked and shook his head.

“Come, Will Henry! I’ve been waiting all day for your return! I need your help in transcribing my notes into another email to Ms Cooper.”

Dumping his backpack into the kitchen chair, Will barely had time to catch up before the doctor barked, “Snap to, Will Henry! I will not have you lollygagging with such important tasks to be done! Snap to!”

After more than four hours cramped against the doctor’s desk while he typed out notes upon notes, Will limped up the stone steps into the kitchen, warm and inviting with the strong scent of brewed coffee. Raising his tired eyes, Will was startled to find Kearns smiling devilishly at him, a predatory gleam in his eye.

Before he could escape, Will found himself in Warthrop’s exact situation, the doctor’s loose smock around his shoulders. Kearns had informed him that he hadn’t expected to return to find a couple of vagabonds residing in the doctor’s house and that of course, like any good Samaritan, he would gladly volunteer his services to help those poor souls in need.

Will was embarrassed because he hadn’t had a haircut in months and though the hair had kept poking him in the eye and sticking uncomfortably to the back of his neck, he had kept forgetting to ask the doctor to go to the barber’s. And when he did remember, he didn’t feel like asking.

With efficient snips of the huge shears, Kearns trimmed Will’s hair, his short tufts springing up like a bird’s. Spinning the shears on one finger, Kearns circled Will before exclaiming his work finished.

“You see, Will, I am a true Jack-of-all-trades! Did you know that barbers used to perform surgeries and extract teeth as well?” asked Kearns with a wicked flash of teeth, clicking the shears open and shut. “You wouldn’t have any leftover baby teeth for me to pull, now would you?”

At Will’s horrified expression, Kearns laughed, sweeping the smock off the boy. He gave the fabric a single snap before draping it over his arm. Then with a quick hair ruffle and a brush of each shoulder, Kearns pushed him off the stool.

The bell rang, jarring Will from his musings. Will scribbled a few more words into his journal before stashing it back into his desk as Mrs Feynman made her way to the front of the class and began the day.

 

***

 

“Kearns. Kearns?”

The doctor threw up his magnifying googles in exasperation. “Jack!”

The man tilted in head to the side, grey eyes peeking up at Warthrop. The doctor tapped the desk impatiently with his bare fingers, tools trapped beneath his palms. Kearns quirked his lips before answering with an innocent sounding, “Yes?”

“I was asking for your observations on the roundworms, Jack. My paper needs it.” The doctor huffed as he tossed his scalpel and pinchers into a tray of rosy-tinged alcohol. “Sometimes I fear that that air of daydreams is contagious since both you and my assistant seemed to have become imbued with it.”

Walking around Kearns, Warthrop wheeled out his desk chair and sat down. With a grunt, he began scribbling in his nearly full journal, shoulders rolling with every jerky swipe of the pen.

“Why Pellinore, I remember a young man once that constantly had his head in the clouds even as he tromped through snake-infested waters and harpy-filled nightclubs.”

“That man learned quickly that sticking one’s head in the clouds blinds him to the reality below.”

Kearns hummed before crossing over to Warthrop, hands clasped behind his back as he read over Warthrop’s shoulder. “You have a most valuable assistant if he can read that monstrosity you call handwriting,” he quipped.

Warthrop bunched his shoulders then resumed writing. “His services have been quite indispensable, yes. Now what about you? Are you going to provide me with yours or not?”

A bright gleam erupted in Kearns’ eye and he sat on the edge of the doctor’s desk. Warthrop looked up at his friend’s teasing grin and scowled. Tugging errantly on a sheet of paper underneath Kearns, Warthrop growled at his friend to move. The man shrugged and shifted slightly, allowing Warthrop to snatch back his papers.

Kearns sighed and held out his hand. “Give me one of your spare notebooks. It’ll be more efficient to just write them down myself,” he said.

Warthrop slapped a half-used one into his hand. Snatching one of the many pens lying about on Warthrop’s cluttered desk, Kearns made himself comfortable, crossing his ankles together.

Both men worked side-by-side, Kearns stretching out as the minutes passed by with Warthrop inversely scrunching in seat like one of the many balled up pieces of paper littering the floor. After filling a couple of pages Kearns got up, using Warthrop’s shoulder as a handhold and earned himself an irritated swat.

Kearns left the doctor to his own devices for a while before returning with two mugs of tea and a couple of CD cases tucked under his arm. Placing the cups on Warthrop’s desk, Kearns walked over to the back corner and poked one of the CD’s into the little cassette radio that sat forlornly amongst the apothecary jars filled with cotton, swabs, and gauze.

Warthrop paused as the radio eked on, cocking his head as he listened to the music. After a minute or two, he went back to work and Kearns rejoined him, perching himself next to the doctor onceS again. 

With the soft ambience of the band permeating the room, the pair studied quietly to themselves. Papers rustled as they flipped to a new page or reviewed a remembered tidbit beforehand. Sometimes one would pass their notes to the other, asking for their thoughts or to relay an interesting observation. Gentle laughter would pass through delighted lips as one would toss in an unexpected quip and the other would shake his head in exasperation.

“Would you say the infection and growth rate are similar to the typical roundworm?”

“The child in Texas exhibited a full infection; there were worms in his lungs when I processed the autopsy. Though we weren’t sure of his exact date of infection, we safely assumed that given the different stages of growth in the worms, he has had them for a couple of months. The ones in Puerto Rico I’d say more or less the same. The only strange factor—as I said before—were all of those outbreak victims being at similar stages of infection at the same time.”

“Hmm, that is most peculiar. Do you think they contracted it all at once?”

“Perhaps. But given that contamination and infection is never 100%, that is quite the conundrum, yes?”

“That is what I was thinking. There should be persons that have had it longer or shorter than others, given the probability of not only ingesting the parasite, but having it take hold and propagate in the victim as well…”

Taking up Kearns’ notes, Pellinore jotted his speculation in the margins, narrowly avoiding the man’s elegant handwriting as he harshly circled a single word: _inoculation_. Then like with his own assistant’s work, Pellinore closely read Kearns’ writing, underlining key points and reading them aloud to himself. He nodded whenever he agreed and gave a side-glance at the man when he didn’t. At some notes, the doctor would point and ask Kearns to elaborate, to which Kearns would laugh softly and shake his head, explaining unless he wanted a target upon his back, he was going to stay mum.

Shooting Kearns a glower, Warthrop put their notes together, transcribing the key points onto his own draft, complete with snaking arrows pointing out where they should be interjected. Footnotes littered his umpteenth draft and with a final stab of his pen, Pellinore threw it upon the desk.

“Jack, this is incredibly close. I can feel it. It’ll be the success I’ve been working all these years to achieve.” Warthrop shivered and began putting the papers in various piles. “Even more so than the Candiru expedition I expect, and that whole run has clung to my name with more voracity than its namesake.”

Kearns chuckled, hands gripping the desk as his eyes looked elsewhere. “I never understood your vehement dissatisfaction with that excursion. I thought it quite fortuitous, even if your original hypothesis was refuted by your own hand.”

Warthrop twisted towards Kearns, expression scrunched as if he was staring at the sun. “I practically ended up strangling my whole damn years’ worth of research like it was a turncoat progeny.  How is that remotely fortuitous? Unless Oxford changed its definition without me hearing of it.”

When Kearns didn’t extrapolate further, Warthrop leaned back in his creaking chair with arms behind his head, observing his handiwork. He rocked, booted foot pushing him slightly to the beat of the low music emanating from the radio.

“These may bear a remarkable similarity to the standard roundworm, _Ascaris lumbricoides_ , hatching in the intestines, maturing in the lungs, and migrating back to the intestines. But given all the information provided by yourself and my research, I have reason to believe this adaption to residing in the stomach rather than being coughed up or returning back to the intestines allows for it to at least be classified as a new evolutionary branch within the species itself. Whether or not it has reached the point of being an entirely new species or simply just an advantageous effect of breeding remains to be seen!”

Warthrop leapt from his seat, propelling it back until it clattered against his necropsy table. As if reaching for a bulwark to the surging tide of his emotions, he gripped Kearns’ shoulders tightly.

“To think I am this close, I can practically taste it! Isn’t it magnificent, John?”

Arrested by his friend’s voracious gaze, Kearns seemed at a loss for words. Then he smiled. “It always is, Pellinore.”

Pellinore, giving in to the passion that roared through his veins, spun away, arms outstretched as if he was holding God’s own secret. He paced back and forth from Kearns to Will’s abandoned stool, and then back again.

“I just have to wait on Aisley and Ellis’s DNA results to prove which it shall be! Their turnover period is a mere forty-five days at most and while that is truly exceptional that given the science is only more than a decade old, I feel as if I’ve been waiting for ages. Ages! I can barely stand it.” Shaking his hands in barely contained agitation, Warthrop roughed up the back of his head, disrupting the short strands.

“Well, that is the true human endeavor, is it not?” mused Kearns.

“I don’t know how people can do it. Waiting. Always waiting! Without my work, I fear I would have gone mad long ago.”

“You could always take up some kind of hobby,” said Kearns with a laugh. “God knows people have always found ways to pass the time in frivolous pursuits. It’s how the rest of humanity passes the time while they wait around for whatever Fate has for them in her jaunty hat. What would yours have been, my dear Pellinore? I do find myself at times wondering how you would fare as a writer. A florid word here or there and some antediluvian exposé on the meaning of life. Why, I think you’d be quite good at it.“

Warthrop rounded on his friend. “I am fortunate that my work is also my hobby. I have no time to waste on some insipid activity such as _writing_.”

“Oh? Tell that to your dear Washington. He found time to write some poetry that positively dripped with the anguishes of youth, yet he was still able to take a merry stroll through the American countryside kicking out Redcoats. But you tell me you can’t find time for one insignificant hobby.” Kearns tutted.

“It’s not a matter of _can’t_ , Kearns. More of I find it terribly distasteful and senseless. Less time doing trifling things means more time for my research.” Warthrop raised a brow. “What of your monarchs? They seem to have inherited an absurd need to collect dogs. Is that why your empire crumbled?”

“Why, Pellinore, you wound me! Our Queen is beloved to us all and we find her predilection towards corgis quite endearing. I would never think ill of Her Majesty, the Queen.” Then putting his hand over his heart he shouted emphatically, “God save the Queen!”

Warthrop snorted. “Yet you’re now a naturalized US citizen. You’re just as American as the rest of us born-and-bred heathens now.”

Kearns gasped. “Pellinore! When have you grown such teeth? How bloodthirsty you are!”

“Well, it’s no more than the truth, Jack.”

“True, but I am the best of citizens. A British American! A clean and proper oxymoron.”

Pellinore pushed past Kearns and flopped back into his chair, arms dangling over the rests. “I shall not refute that. You are the only living specimen I have ever known to embody what it truly means to be a paradox, Jack.”

“I strive to please.”

Pellinore raised a brow at his friend’s gleeful smirk. He scoffed and averted his gaze. “Does that mean you’ll help me this time?”

“Not a wit,” said Kearns, watching Pellinore slide lower into his seat and sulk. “The position for one loyal assistant has been filled. Not to mention I have no desire to even remotely apply for that most coveted spot. I, however, shall continue to sit by and enjoy myself while you continue to dissect that poor worm.”

The doctor sighed and pushed himself out of his chair. “I don’t even know why I even bother.”

“I haven’t figured that one out either,” remarked Kearns, hopping into Warthrop’s vacated chair.

Setting both hands to his lower back, Warthrop stretched out his spine. He groaned then thumped his back. Shaking himself loose, he retreated back to where the radio had ceased playing a while ago, having finished the entire playlist. Pellinore switched the CD with another, checking Kearns’ selection before choosing one to his liking.

Then snapping on a fresh pair of gloves and replacing the magnifying googles to his head, Warthrop returned to the flayed contents of the foot-long worm on the counter. Warthrop bent over it while his hands hovered as if he was repairing an instrument, wrists twisting while holding the tools nearly perpendicular to the table. He hummed to the radio, pausing once in a while to jot something in a notebook across the table.

Lost to his work, Warthrop didn’t hear the tinny cry of the phone through the open basement door. When he didn’t react, Kearns left, climbing up the stairs with only one glance back at the doctor, who had begun to whistle as he worked. 

Snatching the phone from the wall, Kearns held it to his ear, one arm wrapped around his torso.

“Warthrop’s residence,” he drawled, glancing around the nearly organized study. He paused, glimpsing something upon the desk.

“Yes! Hello? Dr Warthrop, this is Ms Fairwater, the school nurse. I’ve got your son here. It seems there was a lil’ accident regarding the visiting chemistry lab folks and he’s currently resting here with me.”

“An accident?”

“Yes. Nothing serious. To be honest, Will wasn’t injured but it was his reaction to the accident that made him all ill. He told me he’s doing alright enough to go back to class, but I figured as his dad you’d like to know what happened and take it from there.”

Kearns regarded the open study door. “So what happened to the dear boy?”

“It seems he suffered from a panic attack when some of his fellow students caught their experiments on fire. They got it all under wraps in the flame hood, but Will ran away. They found him outside near the school perimeter.”

Kearns tapped his elbow. “Mm. Keep him occupied for me, Ms Fairwater. I shall be there shortly.” He hung up.

Kearns remained where he was, elbow still clasped in his other hand while he rubbed his moustache. His eyes fell, regarding the thin unmarked folder from before, half-hidden beneath two sprawled sheets of paperwork.

Taking a step closer, Kearns leaned over the desk, eyes roving over the documents. On top, an official affidavit’s instructions were marked with Warthrop’s illegible scrawl, with several lines circled with dark pen. On the actual form, some of the empty boxes were already filled: _I, Pellinore Xavier Warthrop hereby declare, to the best of my knowledge, information, and belief that all the information on his form is true and complete…_

The bottom remained blank, signatures missing and spaces conspicuously untouched.

Casting a discerning eye about the room, Kearns looked around for something. Not finding what he was searching for, Kearns quit the room, shutting the door behind him.

***

 

“Will Henry, your dad’s come to pick you up.”

Will shot up from the patient bed, the cheap plastic and paper crinkling under his weight. His jacket fell off his face and instantly Will laid back down, the blast of sterile light and sudden movement stabbing pain into his head. Will moaned and tossed a hand over his eyes.

“He’s not my father,” Will replied weakly.

“I know he isn’t, but he’ll be soon, right?”

Not wanting to think about anything outside controlling his stuttering thoughts, Will ignored the lady. He felt has if his head was splitting apart, threatening to spill its contents out of his eyes and ears. Will mildly wondered if the doctor would find that somewhat interesting and examine it with the rest of that other boy’s remains.

“Ah, there you are—thank you for stopping by to get him; I know parents have a busy schedule. I just gave him some acetaminophen for his headache a while ago. He’s been lying down for a bit now. Will, can you sit up?”

Will cracked open his eyes.

Instantly it felt as if someone had just placed a huge weight on his chest, his heart railing against the pressure. It was a good thing he was still lying down because Will truly felt like fainting.

Looming behind the short and stout Ms Fairwater was the grinning form of Dr Jack Kearns. Noticing Will’s discomfiture, the man’s grin broadened, a feral edge sharpening his teeth. Then it vanished.

“My dear Ms Fairwater, thank you for caring for our young Will Henry! I don’t know what would have happened if I had been out and unable to answer your phone call! But it seems that you had everything well in hand. I couldn’t have done better.” He winked jovially, the actor’s mask awash in smiles and good-natured humor.

Will lay there, gob-smacked, as Ms Fairwater giggled and swatted at Kearns playfully.

“Now you stop that,” she admonished. Then she smiled kindly at Will. “We already got your school stuff for you so just rest up, ok? Remember what I said; it’s nothing to be all upset about. Sometimes these things happen and no one was hurt, so it’s all good.”

Will nodded mutely, acutely aware of Kearns’ gaze upon him. Sitting up with quivering arms, Will swung his legs off the bed. He was breathing as if he just came from PE. Mouth dry, Will slowly wet his lips as placed his feet on the ground.

Though it was upsetting that Dr Kearns had showed up to his school of all places, he felt like kissing the floor. Thank goodness it wasn’t Dr Warthrop! The last thing he wanted was for the doctor to find out he had to be excused from a regular science lab— _what would the doctor think of that?_

After the nurse had hung up on her call to ‘Dr Warthrop’—despite his vehement protests not to—Will felt like laughing and crying all at once. The doctor coming to pick him up at school! And because he couldn’t handle a little bit of fire! How hilarious would that be if he had fought the horrors of horrors in the doctor’s basement, only to be given up on because he couldn’t handle something as normal as school?

Holding Will’s trembling hand, Ms Fairwater delivered Will to Kearns, who handed him his backpack, all zipped and ready to go.

“We’ll be off!” said Kearns, clapping a hand to Will’s shoulder. He squeezed it slightly. “Give my regards to Mrs Feynman. And to that most helpful nurse.” Kearns winked.

Flapping her hand at Kearns as if to shoo him away, the nurse nearly badgered the two out of her office. “None of that, I tell you! Take your boy home, you hear?”

Chuckling to himself, Kearns marched out of the school, Will trailing behind. He showed a keen interest in the surroundings, eyeing the kiddie art on the wall and the cheesy educational posters. He laughed too when they walked past a line of kids standing outside their classroom, reciting something back to their teacher.

“How remarkably efficient the tried and true really is! Here or there, the systematic drudgery of institutions can always be enlivened with a bit of crayon and some effective rhymes!”

Readjusting the straps on his shoulders, Will jogged to catch up with Kearns as he strode outside. As the reality of the situation slowly made itself known to Will, only one thing pounded in his chest until Will could feel himself quake with the ferocity of it.

“Sir, is it…I mean…” Will paused for a breath, hands on his knees. “Dr Kearns, am I in trouble?”

Kearns paused at his motorcycle where it was parked in the bus circle. He cocked his head.

“Trouble? I think the answer to that depends on what you would consider to be troublesome.” Kearns patted the small rear seat. “But philosophical talk aside, I need you up here, Will Henry. Our dear Pellinore seemed to have misplaced his keys, so lucky for you and I, we get to travel in style. But safety first!”

Plunking an oversized helmet onto Will’s head, he instructed Will how to tighten the straps as he straddled the Triumph, the monstrous machine rocking with the movement.

“Is this alright?” asked Will, looking with concern at the amalgamation of twisting metal and leather.

“If I can take a bit of boy home intact over thousands of miles, I think I can take a whole one and myself a few miles down the street!”

Using the exhaust pipe as a foothold, Will climbed atop the motorcycle. Will’s heart beat wildly as he slid into the tiny seat behind Kearns. He felt extremely unsafe atop the hulking machinery without a seatbelt or walls to hold him in place. When the machine roared to life beneath him, Will yelped in surprise and clamped his little body to Kearns, earning a surprised burst of laughter from the young man. Like the motorbike under him, Kearns’ strong body rumbled with his mirth.

“You are well on your way, little assistant-apprentice! Why one day, you might even surpass Warthrop!”

Revving his engine, Kearns pealed out of the driveway as if he was in a drag race. Kearns took the turn sharply and for a horrible second, Will swore he could’ve touched the asphalt if he wanted to. Instantly it felt as if all his organs decided to make a mass exodus to his throat. Will clung for dear life, knotting his hands in Kearns’ waistcoat.

“Now don’t you dare vomit on me, Will Henry! You do and I’ll chuck you off!”

Despite the overwhelming fear of flying off the motorcycle or crashing (Kearns drove as if the speed limit was a mere suggestion) Will felt a rush, a heady dose of doing something for the very first time and enjoying it. Of realizing that even as you were doing this dangerous thing, it was exhilarating for every second you spent doing it. He felt the blood rushing to his extremities as houses and trees whizzed past as if he was on the train and Will just wondered how fast they were going. Cars ambled by like lumbering animals and Will nearly yelled when Kearns zipped in and out of the small traffic, flirting with each vehicle as if he personally wanted to nick them.

Reaching their neighborhood, Kearns eased off the gas. He pulled into Warthrop’s driveway before shutting his bike off entirely. Shaking his golden hair, he turned to Will, a boyish grin alight on his face.

“Quite the adventure, mm? One might say you have the blood for it, Will Henry!”

Kearns laughed as Will peeled himself off and nearly tumbled off the motorbike like a disjointed slinky. Will hobbled across the patches of new and dead lawn, making his way inside while Kearns returned the bike to the garage.

Once inside, Will realized his headache had receded and besides the wobbly legs and slightly upset stomach, Will was no more worse for the wear than he had been the other times he had a pervasive sense of fear overwhelm him.

Instantly guilt drenched the boy. He shouldn’t be home if he was feeling alright. What if the doctor thought he was making it up?

_I will not tolerate lying, Will Henry!_

Will nearly tripped over his feet to make it into the parlor. Wrapping his arms around his stomach, Will doubled over, feelings like lead leeching into his body.

The doctor was all he had left of his father; the only inheritance he had bequeathed his only child besides an ill-fitting hat that hung forlornly on a peg above his head. 

There were other people who knew his father, their kind smiles and soft concern ebbing at the fringes of Will’s mind, but Warthrop was the hidden world of his father made real. The missing piece that he never got to see save in dreams woven from his father’s lips as he tucked Will in bed. Like a golden thread hidden in the rich tapestries of his tales, it intertwined everything that made him who he was.  When Will awoke alone in bed, he would take it in his hands, carefully peeling back the layers of rich color until he found it.

_One day, Will. One day, you shall see…_

Hours a day. Months melding into each other. Time lost. Even with his father’s tales by his side, it seemed as if he was looking through an endless window with his father on the other side. Untouchable and forever out of reach.

Through the doctor, he lived. With every minute by the doctor’s side, Will could feel his father’s steps in that very room. As he typed notes, he had accessed his father’s works, small fingers placed where his father’s once had. Even though Warthrop barely talked about his father, sometimes Will could catch him lost in thought as he held one of his father’s old notebooks or rereading his old documents.

It was those moments Will felt a tug in his chest, an inexplicable yearning as if he was connected to the man at his side. It wasn’t like anything he experienced; he had no words to describe it. Far from the doctor’s side, he felt alone. Alone to himself and his thoughts. But with Warthrop, it rolled into a dull ache, a mirrored tide beneath an unending sky.

To lose it, to watch it fall through his fingers, was something that strangled deep inside of him like the innumerable worms that swarmed on the fringes of his thoughts.

Will rolled himself onto the couch, his sore body making itself known. Giving in, Will melted into the cushions.

A few minutes later Kearns came back and handed the boy a damp towel. Will immediately placed it over his eyes, the cool wetness an immediate source of relief for his aching eyes. It felt like he was floating, surreal as he could feel himself only if he thought about it. Otherwise, the only thing he felt was the lingering wetness from the towel and his sweat.

Suddenly Will surged up, feeling as if he was being squeezed inside his own clothing. Will felt like he was going crazy as he ripped off his shirt over his head. He almost panicked when his head got stuck, but a cold hand fell to his exposed shoulders, causing him to flinch sharply.

“Will Henry, why are you taking off your clothes?”

The doctor’s voice, emotionless and calm, arrested Will. He ceased struggling. With a gasp, the boy popped free of the strangling shirt and chills raced up his torso.

Kneeling on the rug, Warthrop gently pushed Will back into the couch.

“I felt very hot, Dr Warthrop. And it was too tight. I couldn’t breathe or move.” Will shivered. Wordlessly, Kearns handed Warthrop the parlor’s throw blanket and Warthrop draped it over Will.

Reaching to where he crouched on the floor, the doctor rummaged in an ancient leather doctor’s bag and removed a stethoscope. Popping the earpieces in, he placed the chest piece on Will’s bare skin, earning a sharp inhale from the boy. The doctor’s face twisted into a frown and he continued to listen for a few seconds more. He grunted and whipped the instrument off, stowing back into his bag.

Then he removed a plastic cuff and wrapped it around Will’s bicep, tightening it. Pumping a small device, the band squeezed harshly around Will’s arm. Fixing his gaze on his wristwatch, Will watched the doctor’s lips move silently as he counted. Tapping the blood pressure gauge, Warthrop murmured the count to himself and released the device before stripping it off Will’s arm.

The doctor checked his temperature. Then he examined his throat and his eyes with a pin-light, which caused Will to jerk sharply. Between each test, Warthrop had jotted down the information into a tiny pocket notebook. When finished, he stashed it into the dirty smock he was wearing.

“Doctor Kearns told me that you had to be picked up at school,” stated Warthrop.

“Yes, sir.” Will’s eyes darted over the doctor. The doctor’s face was impassive as Will scrutinized him. Feeling the weight of Warthrop’s gaze, Will’s eyes squeezed shut and he curled into the couch.

“I’m sorry, sir.”

Warthrop slowly stood up, looking down at the boy twisted beneath the blanket and face buried in couch.

Saying nothing, the doctor left, his doctor’s bag gripped tightly in his hand. He escaped into the kitchen, placing the case on the table. Kearns entered a moment later. Warthrop’s arms were braced against the table, taut and unyielding as the eyes that bore into the stained wood.

“You think it could be physical?”

“I can’t rule it out. All variables must be considered and if it’s something physical …” Warthrop snapped free, arms falling to his sides. He shrugged.

“Do you think he has what James—“

“No! Never! Don’t even say that!” Warthrop reeled upon Kearns, snatching his lapels in tight fists. “He will never have what James had—I will make sure of it!”

Breathless, Warthrop threw the fabric from his hands. “Will Henry will never fall victim to what I allowed James to.” He spoke the last bit softly. Head bowed, he stared at his hands.

“Is that why you have the affidavits regarding the child’s adoption?” Kearns asked quietly.

“How did you know of that, Kearns?” snarled Warthrop. A single accusing eye snapped past the fringe of hair.

“You left it out on your desk. I saw it when I went to answer the phone.”

Warthrop spun on his heel, back towards Kearns. “What of it? It is none of your business.”

“Excuse me if I was mistaken.” Kearns took a step back. “But you are too bloody ambivalent, Warthrop. What are you really ruled by? You know it is edict as old as time that you cannot be ruled by head and heart, lest you be torn in twain.”

Pellinore’s hands gripped his arms. “You offend me, Jack. I am a scientist and as such, am always ruled by logic and fact. As I told you and Robert and everyone else that keeps trying to stick their bloody nose in my business: I am merely doing my duty in securing Will Henry the best home possible. I don’t understand why everyone around me is determined to be blind as Tiresias to that fact!”

“Why indeed. If you find the answer to that, do let me know?”

Before Warthrop could respond, Kearns quit the room. He returned to the study, eyes once again catching the well-worn paperwork as he picked up the phone. Slipping a bundle of papers from his waistcoat, Kearns unfolded them. Flipping past pieces of notebook paper, he found the typed note. Finding the phone number, Kearns dialed it and waited.

The phone connected and refolding the sheets of paper, Kearns slipped them back into his vest.

“Hello, Mrs Feynman speaking. May I ask who is calling?”

Leaning casually against the desk, Kearns answered, “I am calling about the note you gave me earlier. Do you remember?”

There was silence on the other end for a brief moment. Then—“Oh! Yes! Dr Koury…when would be an ideal time for you to come in?”

Kearns smirked, fingers sweeping across Will’s adoption papers.

“How’s tomorrow? Will should be back in school then and I do believe something can be arranged.”

“I don’t have any meetings so afterschool should work perfectly. Thank you for being prompt! I really appreciate it.”

“Not at all,” drawled Kearns. “Not at all. See you then?”

Hanging up, Kearns strode out of Warthrop’s study, face bereft of emotion and eyes as cold and blank as iron.

 

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> End Folio II


	20. The Beginning of the End

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Folio III: Legacy  
> “They fell. Like a falling star, proud and unyielding, even on the darkest of nights, they fell. For one shining moment, it was more beautiful and more heart-wrenching than anything that existed on the earth.”

Hiding in the shadows, Will peeked into the kitchen and found Dr Warthrop busy at the stove. A pot was bubbling away, drenching the ceiling with curls of steam. Warthrop was watching the pot as if it held something unusual which given his peculiar occupation, there was a good chance it was.

Once Will had spent a good amount of soap and the better part of his well-earned break scrubbing a pot that once held the dissolved remains of one of Warthrop’s worms. Whether or not it was a legitimate experiment or the doctor was simply curious and had the worms to spare, Will didn’t know nor did he want to.

"Will Henry, why are you skulking in the doorway? It’s quite annoying." Warthrop frowned. Then he stirred whatever it was in the pot, the spoon clunking dully against it. It sounded like something was rolling around on the bottom.

"Sorry, sir," said Will, shuffling into the room. The kitchen was lit brightly, the night kept at bay beyond the sheen of condensation. The table was clear of any paperwork, everything having been moved to the library so their research could be laid out on the huge six-foot table that dominated the entire room.

Will was nervous that he had slept through the entire afternoon. He had woken up disoriented and not understanding immediately where he was, Will felt a surge of panic, seeking refuge under the throw. But once his eyes had adjusted and the familiar shapes of the parlor bleed to life against the black, Will calmed down.

Did the doctor understand what was going on with him? Will feared that something was wrong, especially since every time he this happened to him, it was random and Will couldn’t understand why it even kept happening. But the doctor had checked his vitals the same way the ones he visited at the clinics did, and both Warthrop and Kearns had allowed him to sleep the day away. So maybe he really had been ill?

Will wasn’t sure if he should feel relieved at the idea. But then again, it did mean he could be cured and back on his feet in no time. Even though it wasn’t the same as the other times Will felt a debilitating sense of fear strike blindly out of nowhere, this time he felt better than before.

But as he left to find the other occupants of the household, something latched onto the insidious fear in the furthest reaches of his mind, and brought it to the forefront. Will expected Warthrop to address what happened, to make some remark on how he slept too late or to explain himself as soon as he woke up.

But Warthrop didn’t. He continued to stare at either the pot or window, shifting his weight as if he was ready to sprint away at any moment.

Bolstered by the lack of inquiry, Will went to Warthrop. He looked to the pot then at the doctor, who tapped the wooden spoon against the counter.

"Sir, what are you doing?"

Warthrop fell out of his thoughts. "What does it look like, Will Henry? I am cooking."

Will couldn't have been more stunned than if the doctor told him they were celebrating his birthday. In the months Will had come to live with him, the man hadn’t cooked even once. It was completely absurd, like Alice stumbling upon the Mad Hatter’s tea party. But here the doctor stood in his blood-stained smock, sleeves bunched around his thin arms while he poked at the pot with his spoon.

It must’ve shown on his face because Warthrop shot Will a scathing look before snapping, "I think I can handle a remedial task such as cooking, Will Henry."

Disregarding the glower tossed his way, Will pressed on. It was simply too astounding to let go.

"What are you making?"

"Soup," said the doctor.

"Soup?"

"Yes, soup, Will Henry. Why, is that too hard to wrap your head around?"

"No, sir. It's just...I wasn't expecting soup." Will stood upon his tiptoes but since the doctor was using the back burner, he couldn’t see.  The mere mention of food dragged his appetite out into the open and it cried for any sort of food, Warthropian or otherwise. Apparently it was ready to forgo any caution when it came to being filled.

So Will tried again. "What kind of soup is it, sir? Can I see?"

The doctor looked as though Will just insulted his culinary expertise. But still he complied, grabbing the handle and plonking the pot onto the stove so Will could peer inside.

The soup was just boiling water. That and a single pitiable potato and onion sitting on bottom.

Will was speechless. Was this why the man was as skinny as a struck match? Even Will knew that you needed more than that for soup!

The onion, still in its papery skin, floated to the surface. Warthrop prodded the onion and it gave a sad little bob. "Is it done, Will Henry?"

"I...I—Sir, that's only going to make it into a mashed potato...and onion."

"Are you sure?"

"I'm pretty sure, sir. My mom made soup before and that's not soup. You need more vegetables."

"Would that not just make more mashed vegetables?" said Warthrop. Then he cast an accusing eye towards Will. "If you knew how to make soup, how come you haven't said anything?"

"I didn't know you planned on making soup, sir."

Warthrop’s face soured as though Will just ruined his meal. "Well, from what I understand, all children like mashed potato so here you are." Spooning out the potato into a bowl, the doctor slapped it on the table. "Sit. Eat quickly; Ms Cooper sent some inquiries over the mail and I need you to answer them for me."

Will plopped in his chair with his lonely little bowl of boiled potato. The doctor hadn't given him any utensil but instead leaned against the stove, fingers drumming against the metal top. Sighing, Will went and nabbed a spoon from the drying rack and began smashing his potato.

“Well, well, what do we have here? Isn’t this a most charming scene?” Dr Kearns ambled into the kitchen. He paused, gaze immediately snapping to Will who froze, hand half-way into mashing the remnants of his potato.

“Warthrop! Don’t tell me this is all that is for dinner? Why, I swear there was more in your fridge than that! Or are we reenacting a 19th century immigrant family? If so, you’re the first I auction up on the chopping block to tuberculosis.”

“If you don’t have anything better to do, you can always leave, Kearns,” said Warthrop. He eyed Kearns as if the man returned specifically to cause trouble. Kearns waved his suggestion away while he observed the contents of Will’s bowl.

“Why didn’t you ask Will to make dinner? He’s got quite the touch.”

“Because he was sleeping.”

Kearns shifted minutely, single eye peering over his shoulder. “Oh? Are you taking your duties a bit more seriously?”

Warthrop closed his eyes. “If you have any objection, just do what you want with it, Kearns.”

Kearns clapped his hands. “Don’t mind if I do. And because you said it oh-so-nicely, I’m going to give it a quaint British flair. Only because I know how you enjoy it.” Kearns winked, brushing past Warthrop to snag a package of sausages out of the fridge. Cracking it in half, Kearns spilled them into a skillet he procured after nudging Warthrop from the stove. The man danced out of reach as if Kearns had carried in the Black Plague with him.

“Will, hand me that abysmal fare of yours? As well as a few more of those potatoes and onions.”

Will did as asked and after half-an-hour, the two of them sat to a generous helping of what Kearns called ‘bangers and mash’. Will had never seen anyone bake sausages alongside mashed potato before, but from what he gleaned from Warthrop’s affronts towards Kearns’ cooking, British fare seemed to be an infinite exercise in cooking meat and vegetables together while trying not turn it bland and boring.

But it was better than Warthrop’s measly cooking and for that, Will was thankful. He dug in immediately and his stomach finally appeased, ceased rumbling.  

“A scientist that can bleed bodies dry and gut creatures with precision, yet you cannot render a root into any suitable form of palatable food. Absolutely dreadful.” Kearns speared a bit of sausage and onion and popped it into his mouth.

Warthrop huffed, fingers tapping irritably against his tea cup. “It fulfilled a need sufficiently, Kearns. It wasn’t as if I was trying to enact a culinary masterpiece. You, however, are one to talk. Forcing this tasteless food on the masses should be considered a crime.”

“Tasteless?  Why, just look at your little assistant-apprentice! Practically face-first in my cooking. I tell you what. The day you best me in cooking is the day I will lay down my knives and cease altogether,” replied Kearns emphatically, making a show of crossing his heart. “Until then, I fear I shall endeavor to introduce your assistant to some of our most iconic dishes.” He turned to Will. “Have you ever had black pudding, Will Henry? Would you like to try some for breakfast tomorrow?”

“Don’t answer that, Will Henry! The very existence of that is an abomination! Whatever you do, don’t try the pudding!”

Kearns laughed. “Now who’s being tasteless?”

“Says the man who eats beans for breakfast,” snapped Warthrop. “And on toast, no less.”

The two men squabbled and Will ate his meal leisurely, having missed lunch. It was tastier than Warthrop made it to seem; Will had almost finished the whole dish when Kearns interrupted.

“So Will, have you received your essay back? I am keen to read what you wrote regarding my literature.”

Will’s fork clattered into his plate. Abashed, Will pulled it out and scraped it clean of potato. “No, sir, I have not,” he said. Will ducked his head, unwilling to meet Kearns’ eyes. They were unsettling, almost as if they were seeing right through him.

“It’s been more than a month. How odd.” Kearns leaned back, both hands clasped upon his lap as he continued to regard Will.  

The boy squirmed in his seat. This wasn’t the first time Kearns had asked about that particular essay. “I mean, I do have it now,” he said. “But it’s at school.”

Before Kearns could respond, Warthrop interjected, “Jack, why are you asking Will Henry about school?”

“Why aren’t you?” A hint of curiosity lined his query.

“Seeing as they aren’t calling with any reports that should bear a negative standing in regards to his education, there is no reason to waste my time otherwise. I see Will doing his homework and given his acceptable completion of his duties to me, I fail to see why I should think he’s doing less than that at school.”

Will scrunched his shoulders, wishing he could sink straight into the floor. That was precisely why the essay and his school letters were tucked away in his backpack. He wasn’t sure what the exact definition of ‘acceptable’ was in the doctor’s eyes when it pertained to his schooling, but he was sure the stable of ‘C’ averages he trotted weren’t what the doctor had in mind.

With one look at Will, Kearns shrugged as if to concede the conversation to the doctor. But as Will packed the leftovers into the fridge, Will could feel Kearns watching him.

 

***

 

The school bell rang and as usual, Lizzy came to meet Will before hopping onto their shared bus. But Will knew it was more a courtesy to her sister, since Lizzy was charged with Sarah’s care and Sarah always wanted to pick up Will as if he was some stray dog brought into her care.

So it was dragging Will by each of his hands that the Stinnett sisters first clapped eyes on Dr Jack Kearns. He leaned idly against a sign pole, observing the crowd of teachers and students, who in turn eyed him warily.

Will faltered to a stop as he spotted Kearns and Kearns spotted him. But before Will could do anything, a tide of children nearly toppled him over until they spat him out into the bushes.

“My, Will! That was a most undignified exit, especially in the presence of your two young ladies here.” Kearns swept a hand over Lizzy and Sarah as if they were next in line to a pageant. They giggled. Then he tutted at Will before hauling him out of the bushes. Both girls dissolved into giggly mess at the sight of this terribly tall man pulling Will free as if he was an overzealous weed.  

“I’m fine, sir,” grumbled Will, dusting the leaves out of his hair, not looking at either of the two girls. They were delighted, completely in awe of Kearns with his rakishly long hair pulled back into a small queue and clipped into place with a few nondescript hairpins. Will nearly groaned when instead of being off-put by the man’s toothy grin, they seemed all the more enthused and began asking him his opinion on _their_ hairpins!

Will nearly sagged with relief when the bus monitor blew her whistle in warning and the two girls took off, waving at both Will and Kearns, though Will had the suspicion his was more of an add-on to Kearns.

Kearns watched the buses roll away, hands on his hips as if his being there was an entirely commonplace occurrence. Will wondered if this was exactly how Warthrop felt every time Kearns showed up to Harrington Lane. Before Will could consider it more, Kearns spun around, signature smile directed at him.

“Do you by chance have that paper regarding _The Nose_?” he asked. “I find I am in need of it. And oh, look, here we are at school, where it is. Just in case you’ve forgotten it.” The smile grew teeth.

Feeling very much like a child who got caught with his hand in the savings jar, Will removed his backpack and began thumbing through his binder, looking for the culpable sheet.

“Is that why you came all the way over here, sir?” asked Will, handing it over. “To make sure I brought this for you?” It was the only explanation Will could think of, but he also thought it strange Dr Kearns would come all this way just for some kid’s essay.

“Didn’t you know?” said Kearns, his face in mock surprise. “We have a meeting with your teacher!”

Will felt his stomach plummet faster than innards spilling out on the table.

Without even waiting for Will, Kearns made off in the direction of his classroom, striding confidently past tentative flowerbeds and straggling students.  Gathering what little remained of his nerves, Will bolted after him.

“What—why? My teacher? You?” Will gasped. He tried not to trip over the sidewalk cracks.

Kearns chuckled and whapped Will with his essay. “You must be quite the articulate fellow in class, Will Henry. Yes, me. And yes, your teacher. Who else would I need to meet here? As for the what and why, that can be answered simply: your teacher invited me! It seems she has been a bit concerned about you for some time. Now, I wonder why that is…”

Kearns trailed off, leaving Will wishing he could dissolve on the spot. Or be shoved back into the bushes. Or maybe buried under the flowerbeds like the Kindergartener’s hamster.

Swinging open the outside door to Will’s classroom, Kearns stepped in with all the grace of a visiting dignitary, all polite smiles and twinkling eyes as he announced himself. “Mrs Feynman, how are you? I hope you are doing well this fine Thursday? I do apologize for setting up this meeting on short notice, but I fear work has quite the hold on me. Like the titillating pages of a scandalous novel, it will not let me go!”

Skirting the sidewalk outside the classroom, Will nearly jumped when Kearns popped his head outside and called for him. Keeping his eyes at his feet, Will trudged to his doom.

“There’s a lad! How about you sit right here?” Kearns gave a paternal pat atop the desk next to him. All the tables had been arranged in groups of four to five for their work regarding the labs from yesterday, which Will had to copy the notes for since he missed the last couple of stations. Though Kearns sat on the desk rather than the too tiny chairs, he still dominated the entire makeshift table, legs outstretched before him like some delinquent child all-too-knowing about why he was called up to the teacher’s desk. Will sat at the space indicated but kept a healthful distance from the gleefully smiling man.

As Will cast a doleful glance at his teacher, she seemed shocked to see him there. “You brought Will?” she asked, trim brows rocketing towards her neatly arranged hair.

“Of course, seeing as this involves him.” Kearns grinned savagely. “That is, unless…you were expecting something else, Mrs Feynman? I admit I am curious—are you related to the physicist? Or does your name relate to your mode of livelihood?”

The woman blushed. “Oh no, not at all. I’m the most educated in my family at the moment. But with Will…it’s just, well, usually we have conferences with just the adults since it’s not likely the child can really understand some of the things we have to discuss.” When Kearns said nothing in response, she flustered a bit before taking refuge behind her desk. “I mean, like I told you yesterday, given all that he’s going through, perhaps he should…ah…” Her eyes flit to Will.

Kearns leaned back and idly tapped his lips. “Ah, yes. No need to repeat something already understood, mm? And trust me; I’ve been giving it some thought.” He flicked the air by his head. “But tell me, Mrs Feynman, do you have any other…observations concerning Will’s behavior besides what relayed yesterday? I am most keen to hear them. Especially given your diagnosis of his behavior yesterday.”

Again her eyes darted to Will, who flinched. He hadn’t thought of that. Back in class today she treated Will as she always done, a weird mixture of treating him like another face in the class with attempts at trying to ‘get him back on track’. But despite all her vocal responses to Will about his lack of progress, she remained silent to Kearns’ inquiry.

Kearns noticed too. He leaned in, chin tucked upon his hand. “Nothing at all?”

She shook her head. “Nothing besides what I told you yesterday, Dr Koury. We can discuss that perhaps at a later date? Though given that’s it’s nearing the end of the school year, that is something that maybe you can explore over the summer?”

Kearns’ grin could flay the skin off a carcass.

Will sidled closer to the edge of his seat. Last night’s fear roared to life, writhing violently in his gut. No wonder they hadn’t brought up his actions last night—what was the point when Reckoning Day was reserved for twenty-four hours later? Will balled his hands in his shirt, unable to look at either of the adults.

“That may be a most prudent idea, Mrs Feynman. I do commend you for thinking up a most viable solution to the problem at hand. Seeing how that little matter is conveniently disposed of, how about we move onto the next act of our play, mm? Oh look. I have the script right here.”

With a sharp flick, Kearns snapped open Will’s essay like it was the morning paper. He hummed, making a show of scrutinizing the contents thoroughly. Then he placed it on the desk towards his teacher. The red ink once again taunted Will, snarling at him beneath the cage of Kearns’ hands.

“Perhaps I’m not enlightened as you, so I find myself a little perplexed at your commentary upon Will’s essay here. Would you care to explain?” Leaning back, Kearns waited, eyes fixed upon his teacher’s confused face.

“Oh, ok,” she replied, picking up the essay. “Well, as I pointed out here, Will has gotten into a bad habit of not following my instructions as outlined in the sheet. Now I’m not sure if it’s because sometimes he doesn’t pay attention in class when I go over the assignment or if it’s because sometimes he’s writing in his journal when he’s not supposed to, but with that and his art history assignment, it brought his grade down substantially since those where worth quite a lot of points.” Kearns nodded and bolstered by his apparent agreement to her thoughts, she continued. “That sort of thing can be considered plagiarism in the higher levels, so I thought it was my duty as a teacher to bring that up so he wouldn’t do it anymore. Which I did with this essay as you can see. But as I showed you yesterday, he did it again which is why I thought best to bring it up to you.”

She smiled, waiting for Kearns’ approval.

Instead with a leisurely pluck, Kearns took back the paper from her hands. Kearns did not acknowledge anything she said, only reread her notes.

Her smile faltered.

Kearns’ foot tapped a lazy rhythm. “I think I understand now,” he exclaimed softly. “For you, ‘listening’ to a story isn’t on the same level as reading. Why you even circled _and_ underlined it!” He flicked his eyes back towards the teacher. “So perhaps President Bush should have sent us his inaugural address in the mail so I could’ve understood it better? Not that it would’ve made more sense. Or perhaps before the written word was invented, we should have simply grunted in our caves until someone invented a mode of writing instead of first learning how to speak.”

Mrs Feynman’s brows lowered. “That is not what the assignment was, Dr Koury. Will was supposed to read because it’s a reading assignment, not a listening one.”

“So how on earth did Will manage to write this essay? Witchcraft?” Kearns wondered. “Or did he write it out with his eyes closed?”

Mrs Feynman colored. “That isn’t the point. The point is that Will’s supposed to read and find the information on his own and then write it, not have someone read to him and help him develop his idea.”

Kearns flicked his wrist. Mrs Feynman flinched but all he did was toss her grading rubric on the desk.

“You, my dear woman, are a hypocrite. First, your absurd notion that this remotely constitutes plagiarism. Nowhere on this rubric is any mention of citing sources and as you said yourself, Will was to find outside sources. So your cries of foul are no more real than the wolf in the village. Now this.” Kearns tapped the essay. “Is he not receiving help and guidance when he comes to you every day? Or are you getting paid to herd children around as if they were mindless animals?”

“I don’t mean it like that!” she blustered. “He’s supposed to consult the information himself at home—“

Kearns cut her off, holding up a single hand. He smirked. “So are you implying that I, _a doctor_ , am not a valid source of information? That I cannot educate this child to the exacting standards you employ here?” He leaned in close, voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. “Are you saying I’m not a fit role model for this child?”

Mrs Feynman looked stricken, fingers curling tightly on the edge of her desk. “I didn’t mean to—“

“Ah, you ‘didn’t mean to’. Come now. I don’t think anybody really ‘mean’ to do anything…that is, once they get caught.” Kearns straightened, his pleasant joviality pinned neatly back in place. “But I believe in the philosophy of ‘live and let live’—what done is done, yes?”

Mrs Feynman nodded weakly, her eyes fixed on Kearns.

“But I do have some concerns—after all, you had some yourself! So like any good discourse I shall ask you to put my mind at ease.” Kearns pulled out several more slips of paper from his vest. Carefully unfolding them, he lay them out on the table atop Will’s old essay. He spun them around to face the teacher, its red marks glaring accusingly at her.

“First, I must thank you first for giving me this yesterday! When I saw Will had just handed in this assignment, I was truly astounded at your efficiency in how well you employ your educational duties! But this is where I’m concerned. I see you have no prior knowledge of what constitutes the art of Dada. Pity as if you read Will’s essay, you could have found yourself enlightened somewhat. Here—besides the tiring refrain from before—you write for Will to choose a more appropriate topic. Something that is ‘real art’.”

Kearns waved a hand, tilting his head. “Pray tell, what would have been a more…appropriate topic?”

He looked around the room, before returning back to the lady frozen behind the desk. “I see you have a Dali—an excellent choice, that one! I do find Surrealism quite the art form myself. Interesting fellow if you have the mind for a bit of research…I bet if one of your students ever decided to look him up, they’d find a bit more than they bargained for, mm? Perhaps even stumbling some of his, ah, delicate pieces regarding the more intimate aspects of Freudian theory?” Putting on a face of mock consternation, it slowly eroded into a smirk. “I wonder what Dr Warthrop would have thought if he found Will here stumbling upon those as his school assignment?”

Mrs Feynman blanched, unable to say anything in response.

“My, my and someone thought they were the more responsible adult here.” Kearns got up and very deliberately began refolding all of Will’s essays back into a neat pile, before tucking them back into his vest. The rubrics he left. “I am terribly sorry that Dr Warthrop wasn’t present for this, but I do believe we’ve come to a most amiable conclusion?”

Mrs Feynman would not look at either Will or Kearns.  “Yes…I-I am very sorry—“

“Oh, no harm done!” replied Kearns in a chipper voice. “As I’ve said before, I am most grateful that both Will and I were able to have such a productive chat with you. Come, Will Henry! I fear if you are any tardier, Dr Warthrop might have a conniption fit. Not sure if we’d want that.”

Then with as much aplomb as he entered, Kearns tossed open the door and left, several pinned art works fluttering in his wake. Glancing back at his teacher, Will caught her swiping furiously at her eyes, an angry set to her lips.

Will faltered, torn between following Kearns and saying something to his teacher.

Catching the boy’s abortive movement, Mrs Feynman’s head snapped up. Her red-rimmed eyes locked on Will’s, a churning flotsam of upset and degradation.

Whatever words he had congealed, plunking like lead down his throat. Without another thought, Will bolted.

 

***

 

Kearns was waiting for him in the exact same spot as before, looking up at the steel-colored cloud cover as it slowly inched its way across the bright blue sky. Hearing the rapid pitter of Will’s steps, he continued to the parking lot, forcing Will to double his speed to catch up.

“Why’d you do that?” said Will, words slipping past harried breaths. “I don’t think that was right. What you did.”

“Ah. What would have been the right thing then, Will Henry?”

Finally catching up to Kearns, Will stumbled at the unexpected question. After a minute, he mumbled, “I don’t know.”

“Oh, but you do know,” admonished Kearns. “That answer always connotes a note of inaction, doesn’t it? And given your actions so far, it seems to be the route you wished to continue.”

Will kept seeing both the angry, tear-ridden glare of his teacher and his own upset self from before, tearfully accepting charges that he couldn’t understand. However, through Kearns, Will had learned they had been unjustified. He had cried at the shame of believing it was all his fault, that he had done something inexplicably wrong but even more so, that he just couldn’t understand _why_. It had made him feel useless and stupid.

But despite all that, Will felt extremely conflicted.

He fiddled with his shirt hem. “It’s not that…I just didn’t know what’d be the right thing to do. She never listened to me. And every time I tried to say something, it was always wrong. But now I don’t think she’s going to like me at all.”

“Why ever would you want that?” asked Kearns. “Her teaching is abysmal. I was doing you a favor. Why, without my intervention, she might as well lost her job. With this, she can take it as a bit of encouragement to do her job correctly. So I guess you could say I was doing the poor girl a favor too!”

His laughter grated on Will. Suddenly he wanted to strike out at the insufferable man, the impulse racing hotly through his nerves. Clenching his hands into fists, he raced up to the man’s side.

“Couldn’t you have been nicer?” said Will angrily. “She looked scared and upset. You didn’t have do what you did. I didn’t want you to do that at all! It was wrong!”

Kearns came to a stop. Then without a word, he spun towards Will, eyes withdrawn into the shadows of his face.

“People like your Mrs Feynman thrive on undermining others, trampling them underfoot as it they were no more than grapes,” he said, voice as soft to the world as it was loud to Will’s. A harsh bark erupted from his lips. “Why, it’s as if she’s playing God!”

Will took a startled step back.

In that moment, something replaced the man known as Dr John Kearns, this figure of flesh and bone whose laugh now scraped past ferine teeth.

“There is nothing that is _wrong_ , Will Henry, but people. Little insignificant souls like her and countless others who derive joy from the fall of their fellows! If there is one thing you will come to learn, is that if you sit around waiting for what you deserve, then someone else is going to give it to you. How fortunate it was someone like me!”

He strode over to Warthrop’s lone Daytona parked on the outskirts of the empty parking lot. With a flourish, Kearns yanked the car door open and beckoned Will inside.

It felt like getting into a cage with tiger, the kind of animal presented as tame but something else lay beneath the surface, flickering in and out, formless and terrible. But as soon as Will buckled himself inside, Kearns’ cheery demeanor popped back in place and it was as if nothing happened.

The ride home was filled with silence, though every furtive glance towards Kearns revealed only the figure he’d come accustomed to. Every once in a while, Kearns would stroke his moustache or toss a glance out the driver’s window; otherwise he didn’t look at Will.

Not that Will wanted the full attentions of the man upon him. Hot emotion still simmered inside him and Will did not wish to address it. It felt too much like someone had taken a wire and crumpled it in their fists, wadding it up tightly with several more until it was a tangled mess that poked and prodded Will every time he tried to undo it.

When they arrived back at home, Kearns carefully pulled alongside his motorcycle which was parked outside. When he got out, Will immediately noticed that it was packed to the brim with his rifle case and his bulky pack, all strapped down in the rear. Even the two leather saddlebags on each side were buckled neatly and ready to go.

Before Will could say anything, Kearns tossed Will the keys to the car. Then he went and mounted his motorcycle, clamping the helmet atop his head.

Not understanding what was happening, Will ran to Kearns, keys biting into his hand.

“Sir, where are you going?”

Black eyes regarded Will from underneath the helmet, a faint glow within the prodigious shadow. He emitted a low thrum of noise. Then he reached up to secure the clasp beneath his chin.  “Anywhere and everywhere my good steed will take me, Mr Assistant- Apprentice. Good business, this, but I shall take my leave. It was good while it lasted, mm?”

Like a lure, the suspended drop of lead thrashed around within Will. “Why?”

For some reason, that single word gave Kearns pause as he fished the key from his vest pocket. He stroked the pair of keys distractedly before plunging one into the ignition.

“Like Warthrop, my work calls to me—I do feel the need to embroil myself in a bit of lighter fare than these constant worms. Do give my regards to the dear doctor. He no longer has need of my most esteemed services.  Be a good little assistant to him.”

Kearns leaned over his motorcycle before the boy. His eyes never left Will’s as he smiled. Then with a soft murmur he added, “You are very much your father’s son.”

Something had remained in his voice. Something that peeked though, hidden behind the boughs of his goodbye. Then Kearns stuck out his hand.

Two feet wavered in answer, as unsure as the wind that tousled his hair.

Will took a step forward. Then another.  Soft sprigs of clover pressed beneath his feet, fragile blooms quelled into the soil. Reaching the edge where the deadened lawn hung over onto the driveway, Will put his hand into Kearns.

“Goodbye, Will Henry. Maybe one day, if you can survive Warthrop’s tutelage, I shall return to find you an exceptional monstrumologist, equal to that of any I’ve ever met. Though luckily for me, I’ve only met the one.”

Then with a tousle of Will’s hair, Kearns kicked his motorcycle awake and rolled away from Harrington Lane. Something caught in Will’s throat and he staggered forward. But all that remained was the dull cry of the motorcycle as it vanished beyond the trees.

***

“Will Henry! Where have you been? You should have been home over an hour ago!” The doctor gripped the doorframe in both hands like a hug denied, craning his head over Will to peer outside. “Where’s Dr Kearns?”

Will looked behind him as if he hadn’t noticed himself. He was half-expecting the man to be standing in the driveway, laughing as he called out. But all remained quiet, the woods around them hushed yet restless as their leaves quavered. A lone Sudan rolled down the lane, past the deserted home across the street.

“He left,” said Will.

“Left?” exclaimed Warthrop. “Why did he leave?”

Will shrugged. “I don’t know. All he said was he had work to do.”

Warthrop straightened at that. “Ah. Well that is to be expected. Even if I desired, I can’t stop him from winking in and out of existence like a damn tornado.” Warthrop rubbed his chin, eyes fixed on the driveway. “Though I am quite surprised that he stayed as long as he did. He would never stay for more than a few days if there weren’t any pressing matters for him here. Most peculiar…”

Warthrop’s hands fluttered around his head as if he was swatting away the thoughts that buzzed around it. Then he whipped towards Will. His hands nabbed the little boy and yanked him inside. “Come, Will Henry! There isn’t a moment to waste!”

At Will’s bewildered expression, Warthrop continued, face mere inches from the boy’s. “The results came in today—Aisley and Ellis have been testing the gene sequencing for the roundworms all this time and we have the answer! Because of the differences in their mucous gland secretions and their acidity immunity, it’s an entirely new variant, Will Henry! Evolution happening before our very eyes and it’s in something greater than mere bacteria and viruses! Can you believe it?” The man let go of Will and swung himself in a full circle, a lone dancer to his heart’s joy. “All those hours, all those years! I have given myself up to my life’s work, Will Henry, and now it’s all within my grasp!”

He laughed, a rich sound that echoed through the hall like fresh rainwater, cleansing the day’s events from Will’s head. Unbidden, Will fell under the tide, wading through to the doctor.

Finding the boy at his side, Warthrop ruffled Will’s hair. Emotion surged within the boy, a bubbling happiness that obscured the confusion of fear and disappointment that had taken root inside him.

“And you, Will Henry, have been a most indispensable assistant.” Warthrop grinned broadly and in that moment, he seemed no more than a young boy himself, on the cusp of something profound and wonderful. “Come and see the results of my work.”

Bounding into the library, Warthrop vanished, the ripples of his joy clinging to the boy like the ocean’s retreating tide.

***

May ended with a hot summer’s day, coating everything with a muggy blanket that seeped a loamy aroma from the forest around Warthrop’s home. Will had opened the front door with the same awe as a child on a snow day when he saw how many mushrooms had sprouted all over Warthrop’s weed-filled lawn. After asking why his shoes were coated in funny bits of white, Will explained how the doctor had mushrooms that exploded when you kicked them, thrilling both Lizzy and Sarah while they waited for the bus.  

Despite the humidity making everything sticky and uncomfortable, it was the last day of school and Will could not be persuaded to be upset or scared or any other sort of negative emotion. After today, he would be free. Free from the constant unease he felt around his teacher, though she showed no outer change in how she treated him. Free from worrying about grades or balancing his own work with the doctor’s. And free from those weeks where disquiet churned in his gut as he left the doctor abed to his demons.

Saying goodbye to his fellow classmates, Will was finally free, body as light as air.

It also felt like a tether had been loosened; one that subconsciously kept him on edge around his friends and teachers. Though he knew Mrs Feynman and the nurse knew about the death of his parents, he still walked upon eggshells wondering if anyone else would eventually find out. But the rest of the year had come and gone with no one asking about why his father never came to pick him up or who the mysterious blond-haired man was. And for that Will was grateful.  

The summer was mild and Will kept the windows open constantly, if only to dispel the smell of old things and makeshift meals from gelling into every crevice of the creaking house. Will loved it when it rained, the fine mist cleansing the home free of its stuffiness. Sometimes it even lent a bright air to the home that hoarded shadow like the doctor his specimens.

Scrubs of random grass exploded in the lawn, crabbing over onto the sidewalks and driveway and during the long hours when the doctor didn’t need him, Will could be found outside, picking stray handfuls of weeds or sticks. And when left alone, Will would think.

Sometimes he’d think about Malachi and how he was doing at bible camp and sometimes he’d wonder about Clarky going on to his new school. Sometimes he even thought of Jules with whatever it was she might be doing. Though sometimes he’d also think about his baseball friends, he tried not to. They had been disappointed that he wasn’t going to join them at their summer camp together and Will could feel the slow severing of his connection with them, the lone outsider to a group that had once been very close.

But he had his work with the doctor. He would— _could_ not abandon him now, not when his goal was so close. Will wanted to be a part of that with him, of sharing the same joy in progress together, even if that meant spending countless hours staying awake while the man read his paper _ad nauseum_ until Will swore he could write it out half-asleep.

For Dr Pellinore Warthrop, studious disciple to the grisly world of Monstrumology, everything about his paper had to be perfect, the crowning jewel to the sweat and toil of his life’s work. Will typed and retyped and typed everything over again, down to the last comma, just in case something had been forgotten—which something always apparently was.

Then came the photos. They had to be scanned into the computer using an ancient scanner covered with dust in the library. Will especially detested this particular task and all steps involved. Not only did he dislike picking up the photos at the local Wal-Mart but scanning took hours, something that Warthrop seemed to think Will did on purpose. Then came the hours of formatting and trying to wrangle the images into the document. In-between the doctor’s constant badgering of “Is it finished, Will Henry?” and the images jumping around like blasted beans, Will would have rather wrestled a baby. A particularly loud and whiny baby.  

As July waned with the cicadas’ trill, Warthrop finally finished his paper. Freshly printed from the creaky printer in the library, the final document was sealed in scarlet wax with the Warthrop family seal and the flourish of the doctor’s signature. A second copy stood off to the side, christened similarly and tucked away in a leather folio.

Will collapsed in the nearby chair with his cold cup of hours-old tea while Warthrop reread the 53-page document for the final time. At least Will hoped it was the final time because if _he_ had to reread the document just to make a small grammar addition, he was going to scream.

After a while, the doctor noticed Will dozing off in his armchair and before he knew it, he was shooed away with an absent-minded ‘Snap, to’ waved at him like one would do a pet dog. Immediately taking leave –lest the doctor find a mistake and revoke his freedom—Will absconded with his tired body up the stairs, lathered the work off his trembling limbs in the bath and hauled his dead weight to bed.

Will wondered often about the man’s seemingly limitless bounds of energy; he didn’t know where it all came from. And it was always eclipsed by his boundless falls into his own personal abyss. Despite being constantly dragged into his orbit like a comet, Will saw that he was most fulfilled when he was enveloped with his work. His whole being vibrated with ecstasy. And especially so for the culmination of his project. A project borne into his home in the arms of his enigmatic friend and brought into fruition with hours of toil and research. Like the great scientists before him, Curie with radioactivity or Tesla with his signature coils, this was Dr Warthrop’s progeny.

A few instances blurred upon the horizon of Will’s memory, of his father excitedly relating to his mother some of the research that they were working on. Though her lips pressed together until Will was sure they’d disappear, her father’s exuberance kept her from immediately telling him to move on to something else. After a while though, she would abruptly change the topic, often asking how Will’s day was at school. Shooting both his wife and son a sheepish look, he would join in too, though it’d be awhile before his face stopped being as red as his beard.

But Will loved those times best because he knew those were the nights he got to stay up late listening to his father’s stories. Even before Will had finished combing his unruly hair or checking his backpack, his father would already be in his little desk chair, regaling Will with tales of his adventures.

Strong arms crossed atop the back of the chair, he would describe the most wondrous things, though Will’s favorite story would forever be the one about where his father saw the seas meet into one, until nothing else existed save him and their little encampment, lost to the wild stars above and the swimming sands below. He also enjoyed that particular one because though he never met a camel, the very idea of one nibbling at his father’s head had always made him laugh and his father scowl in good-humor.

His father always spoke of his tales with a genuine expression of awe, as if he himself couldn’t believe he had gone on such journeys. But sometimes if Will asked a particular question or if his mother demanded to know exactly what it was they were researching, his father’s gaze would grow shuttered and he would volley the question. Or sometimes he would laugh, distracting them with a tangential answer.

Will thought of Kearns and how normal it had been for him to dump body parts off with the doctor as if he was delivering an order of take-out. Of how he knew and sometimes worked alongside his father. That he considered himself a friend with him.

A pang throbbed in his chest and Will pulled the blanket up, tucking it under his chin.

Casting his head back, his gaze hooked upon the smattering of stars, twined in the velvet soil of the night sky. They reminded him of Warthrop, always in a constant state of motion.

His father had always stood at this man’s side, for as long as Will could remember, recording and observing these malignant parasites that made nests of living humans. Will had only been with the doctor for a few months, but through his eyes the universe was large, frightening and breath-taking; like discovering a world beneath a stone—something Will was only beginning to comprehend and with it, why his father hid a large part of his life from the family he loved.

Will thought of the grotesque offerings upon the table, something most people would shy away from in disgust or banish from their thoughts as a nightmare. But beneath Warthrop’s hands, it was something beautiful, something to be learned and admired as wondrously as unearthing some rare treasure.

His father understood that.

Will turned upon his side and reached to scratch at one of the smooth scars littering his back. Clutching his blanket close, he closed his eyes to the soft orange glow of his attic bedroom. As he drifted off, he thought of his father and his mother, and he wondered if he would ever see them again.

 

***

 

At three in the morning, the phone call came.

It rang as effectively as a church’s toll, albeit more shrill and unnerving than the slow sonorous lament one comes to expect.

With his assistant fast asleep upstairs, the doctor removed himself from the library and went to answer it before it woke everyone with its shrieking cry.

Snatching the device, he answered, “Warthrop’s resi—“

“Yes, I know, you don’t need to tell me. I did dial this particular number.” The voice dripped with the acidity of professionalism and Warthrop froze, instantly recognizing the caller. It continued, sounding insulted as if it was Warthrop calling early in the morning rather than herself. “You know that I wouldn’t even grace your personal number unless it was important. So I’m going to cut all the pleasantries, Warthrop. I’m calling about your research regarding the roundworms.”


	21. You Have Failed Me

“What do you know of my business?” asked Warthrop icily, keeping a modicum of politeness towards his caller. “My affairs have nothing to do with you whatsoever.”  He had already wrested the shock off his face and replaced it with a hardened mask of indifference, for Dr Diane Yap was the very last person he wished to hear from. About anything. And the gall of her to have any sort of knowledge of his project at him like acid.

Dr Yap sighed and tapped an irritating rhythm on the other end of the phone. Warthrop considered ending the unsolicited call, but he knew that would not give him the same amount of satisfaction as it would her. His lips tightened as he clenched his teeth, waiting for her to continue.

“Now none of that, Warthrop,” she said, managing to sound both put-off and bored. “I can practically hear your mind working from over here. I’m only calling you with my sincerest congratulations on your research, which I do hope is going well. Has it concluded?”

Warthrop stiffened, hand strangling a handful of cord. “First of all, I happen to know that given your personality, you aren’t calling to extend me a mere formality between colleagues. You have no interest in any of my research or I yours. So what is it that you want? And as I asked before: _how have you come to know of my business?”_

Dr Yap tittered on the other end, Warthrop picturing too perfectly how she covered her conniving smile behind her artfully done hands. There were just some women who weren’t fit to work in monstrumology, much less any sort of scientific field.

With a delicate cough, Dr Yap returned. “Oh, glad to see that you’ve inherited the same manners from your esteemed father. How appealing. Since I’m not one to dally too much with country bumpkins, I’ll get to the matter at hand: I’m interested in what you have written, Warthrop. However, it’s more forethought on my end. You see, I thought it best if I could ask you for the particulars before your overzealous military wipes their paws all over your research. I do find hiding behind government façade incredibly...irresponsible. Couldn’t fund your own research? After all, your father had a knack for getting funding from less reputable sources.”

Blood roared in Warthrop’s ears, fueling an urge to smash something. Unfortunately, he was in his study. Instead disdain erupted upon his face, which he quickly schooled back into apathy.

“You will leave my father out of this,” he snapped. “Or have you fallen so disgracefully that you must fork over international calling rates just to deliver petty remarks over people five years in the grave? Don’t you presume to think I’m going to remotely give you a shred of my research to peruse, even with your enlightened mode of asking. If you could see fit to drag yourself to this year’s Colloquium for once, then perhaps you can hear it there along with everyone else.”

Yap laughed softly to herself. “Oh, don’t get me wrong, Warthrop. I relish that too. I simply enjoy striking both ends of the snake, so to speak. But let’s get back to the matter at hand. How did you get permission to present their work at the Colloquium? I find that bit interesting because Alistair never even got approval himself and he was one of their top consultants.”

“What the hell are you spewing, Diane—”

“We are not on a first-name basis, _Warthrop_.”

At the hiss of condescension spilling into his ear, Warthrop stiffened, cord twisted tightly about his forearm, its serpentine coils secured in his straining fist.

“Fine then. _Mrs Yap_. A name that fits perfectly for what I know you to do best,” snarled the doctor. “May I inquire to how you came about this information? I have it on good authority that this is a matter that doesn’t concern you, much less your country clear on the opposite ends of the earth. You’re always sticking your fingers where it doesn’t belong. Good to note you are still hale and hearty enough to continue with that particular habit of yours.” Warthrop, teeming with agitation, began pacing the small study.

“Don’t you toss red herrings at me, Warthrop. We both know we can go at it until we both stink to high heaven instead of just the singular one.” Yap sighed. “But if it’ll bring you to the topic at hand, my daughter informed me about—“

“Your daughter?”

“Can you please not interrupt me?” snapped Dr Yap. “As I was saying, given what I learned from my daughter, I was…interested. The great Dr Warthrop would never stoop to researching the world’s most common parasite…that is, unless it was something noteworthy. And given we ourselves are in a tropical clime, this holds relevancy to us as well. Now imagine my surprise when my inquiries lead me to a certain roundworm breakout that is harder to find than evidence of the Chronicler’s existence! Except of course, for the standard blather of ‘scientists working in conjunction with the DOD…etc, etc’. I found that curious given we have a multitude of medications to combat those parasites. So I’m guessing it’s a new evolved threat.”

Warthrop ignored Yap’s statement. Something buzzed and popped against his head, unwilling to be let go. Snatching it, he asked, “What do you mean, ‘scientists’?  I am the only one working on this discovery. There is no one else but me!”

“I figured that,” said Yap derisively, “considering that you work alongside no one except for that lackey of yours or that disreputable excuse of a monstrumologist, Torrance. I admit myself that I was tremendously curious as to why you would research anything at all if it was going to be obscured under the DOD name, knowing how you are after that whole debacle with data parasitism, but I guess if they are allowing you hold it at the Colloquium, then there’s not really anything amiss, is there?”

Warthrop felt his heart stop. Everything had fallen silent around him, save for his shallow pulls of breath. Like eyes adjusting to the unexplored dark, he was suddenly beginning to _comprehend_. His whole being quaked with the horror and enormity of it. But like a child that asks if the monster under the bed real, Warthrop asked the single question that would eradicate it or give it life. “Is it true?”

“What are you asking?”

Warthrop snapped. “I am asking a simple question! Whether or not my father, in his work for the military, ever had his work published under his name! The very thing you keep alluding to—I am asking if it is true? Is that why nothing remains of his work?”

After his father had left the house to him, there was nothing that bespoke of his father’s illustrious career with the Society, or anything to do with monstrumology whatsoever. All of his published journals were conspicuously missing, gaping holes in the barricade of books at lined his study and library. The entire basement had been ransacked from the specimen cabinet to every drawer. It was eerie; every room had been scrubbed clean of all personal affects as if his father never once lived there. Though the skeletal remains of his family life stayed—cumbersome furniture, his mother’s quilts, his old attic bedroom—everything else had vanished, down to the last sock and cheap notebook. All that had been left was his father’s words and whatever documents sat in the Society’s archives in New York.

Yap scoffed. “Blind as always, aren’t you, Warthrop? You say nothing exists of his work? _Nothing?_ How high your ego must be to think that!” She laughed terribly. “It exists alright, if you know where to look. But for a literal answer, then yes—but why didn’t _you_ know this?”

Warthrop had had enough. Plucking the phone from his ear, Warthrop spoke directly into the receiver, “I have all I need from you, Yap. Good day.”

But before Warthrop could hang up, Yap’s voice sidled in one last comment. “I do hope your speech is a smashing success then, Warthrop. And don’t you worry; I won’t be there. Unlike you, I do have existential duties that lie outside my own pursuits. Do give my regards to your mentor. _Xie xie_ , Warthrop!”

The high-pitched whine filled the room, but it did nothing to cease the racing thoughts hurtling around his head, rearing and smashing themselves to pieces against skull.

The DOD. His father.

Pellinore had known his father worked alongside the DOD, though it was the only specific work he had kept secret from his son. Though for all those years, Pellinore had believed it due his father’s disinclination to share anything with him after his flight to New York. But…what if he was required to? That they kept his work, taking it up under their name. It was a common enough practice, especially if you worked in teams under an institutional namesake to be published as a single entity.

And even more so, if the work published needed to exist to save lives, yet still remain secretive to how they procured the results.

_Scientists working in conjunction with the DOD…_

Warthrop nearly ran into the library, racing to the little corner niche with his dull grey printer and battered laptop. Cradling the laptop under his arm, he ran back into the study and laid the computer on the desk.

He hurled it open. Fingers trembling, Warthrop punched in the passcode wrong three times and cursed unintelligibly. Finally the blue screen popped into view, blinding him. Rapidly blinking away the residue of discolored spots eating away at his vision, Warthrop immediately signed online, after another bout of cursing and trying to plug the Ethernet cable into the modem atop his desk.

His heart pounded, wanting to expel itself through the walls of his chest. Warthrop remembered seeing it a couple of days ago…the name had been unfamiliar and he had dismissed it for later. It was only a follow-up to seek an update on his specimens. He had thought nothing more of it after Will had read it aloud to him a week ago. After all, they had given him the specimen and it was natural to wish to get an update. There hadn’t been anything more—

Pixel by pixel, his mailbox opened. Frantic, Warthrop jabbed the inbox link as soon as it showed up. Another couple of minutes. He had to scroll through new messages now. More random people seeking his services and another random person he had no need for at the moment. His paper was so close—

Bypass old mail. Skim over the incessant spam. Where is it?

His eyes darted frantically around the screen. It wasn’t there!

Grabbing his head in his hands, he stared, unblinking at his lap for a few seconds. Collected his breath. Steadied his convulsing muscles. Then with a released breath of air, he tried again, reading each notification by-line thoroughly.

And then, there it was. His hand shook as he clicked for it to open.

 

**MEMORANDUM FOR DOCTOR PELLINORE X. WARTHROP**

**FROM: SARGEANT MAJOR DAVID N. PHELAN**

**SUBJECT:** Work Detail

It has been two months since we have delivered our conveyance to you with a one Dr Richard S. Koury. Given the nature of the parcel as well as our understanding of the work that must be done in regards to said parcel, we have not contacted you in regards to this before today. However, we are in need of a summary on your progress as it stands currently. Our team has currently contained the situation, but none have been able to effectively eradicate them with the medications that currently exist on hand.

Both the vocal esteem of Dr Koury and your own lineage through your father’s work for the DOD have given us the utmost belief that whatever is causing this common problem to become immune to age-old remedies is to be rectified through your most thorough research. We hope to distribute whatever you have found to our residential team of researchers so we can reach a most effective conclusion to the dilemma at hand. We appreciate your continued discreetness in this matter as a means to keep both the general populace at peace and any potential harm contained to a minimum.

Thank you for your most valued services.

Sincerely,

Sgt Major Phelan

66th Marine Division

There it was.

Hidden behind the jargon he had initially dismissed as a laudatory sentiment in his discreet measures thus far. Now there was no dispute. There, the tacit agreement that when he took the military’s specimen, it would not be his to divulge to the world but the government’s, when and how they pleased.  To keep the eyes and ears of the populace at large blissfully unaware, it would remain in their hands. A problem solved through the work of various scientists to which there will be no name.

Warthrop collapsed into his chair.

His newborn dream, delivered safely by his own two hands now had to be given up to the state. Fate always did have a morbid sense of humor, twisting everything until it snapped like a broken neck.

A sound creaked past Warthrop’s lips. Then it grew exponentially until it came out as a terrible rasping hybrid of a chuckle and a sob.

He should have known. Should have _fucking_ known ever since Kearns had pointed out he absconded with the unwilling remains of the little boy.

And now they came collecting.

He breathed, chest straining as his entire body seized up in knots.

It first had been a mere distraction, the promise of something new on the horizon in a night that didn’t seem to end. The wonder, the novelty of it, enthralling him until he no longer thought of where it had come from as long as he could just prove to the world that everything he had done to this point wasn’t in vain. That all he had suffered— _all that he allowed others to suffer—_ was not a meaningless waste, another broken life cast into the mortar and stone of his ambition.

But his father apparently had done this. In exchange for knowledge, specimens— _he didn’t even know_ —his father had given up his work, buried under a vague brand of false accolades and forgotten as the purged house upon which he now stood.

No different than the smoldering ruins of the home on Clary Lane.  

Groping blindly, he sought out the thick packet of papers on his desk.  Fingers stumbled, snatching up the papers, its seal glinting in the diffused bits of street light.

With a roar, Pellinore hurled it across the study. It exploded against the back shelving, sheets of it falling like broken feathers.

 

***

 

The kettle clinked as Will maneuvered it in the stainless steel sink. Flipping on the tap, the steady gush of water filled the room, a susurrate hiss that muted the overwhelming silence of the household. Metal rang against metal as Will put the pot onto the gas stove. Several clicks later, brittle blue flames lapped greedily at the stray droplets on the kettle.

Will had awoken more refreshed than he had in weeks. Not only that, a strange sort of tension had imbedded itself beneath his skin. An itch that drove Will from his bed as soon as he awoke, had him washed and ready and ensconced at the kitchen stove in record time.

He wanted to see Dr Warthrop. _Needed_ to see him.

The work he helped to create was finished and ready to send off. Though it would be wholly under the doctor’s name, Will couldn’t help but feel a well of pride that clamored with the very thought that he, William James Henry, had helped Warthrop. Despite everything, the misunderstandings, the sleepless nights, his own shortcomings—he’d remained by his side.

He knew his mother would’ve disapproved mightily. But his father wouldn’t have been more proud. The man he loved and revered alongside the son he loved, working in the field that brought him the greatest joy...

Will rubbed his eye and snagged the tea tin. He went back to preparing his tea, reaching up on his toes to snag a mismatched pair of mugs. The kettle whistled brightly, lending a cheery tune to the woven bower of light outside the windows. Will shut off the stove and prepared the pot. His spoon clinked dully against the porcelain but besides that small sound, everything in the house felt hushed and quiet.  

Slowly, Will turned around. Beyond the archway lay the hall, always dim even in the brightest of days. Only the few obscured panes of glass filtered a weak light in. When he made his way downstairs, Will had noticed with a bit of discomfort that all the doors were shut.

A mute rustling scratched impatiently outside and Will almost dropped his mug.

It’s not the same. _Not the same._

Once the tea was finished, Will left to find Dr Warthrop. He treaded down the hall, past the pictures of old ships caught aflame and lithographs of various parasitic species. Pressing himself against the front door, Will eased the latch and peeked outside. The Daytona was still parked where the doctor had left it last, one wheel half in the grass since he had been too eager to examine his photographs to park correctly.

Will eased slightly. Wherever the doctor was, he was hiding around somewhere at home and not out, which on some days took hours. Will always thought they were always work outings, but sometimes he would return empty-handed and more irritable than before.

Inching the door shut, Will tried the study next.

The whole room was buried in darkness. Heaps of it spilled over the bookcases and onto the floor. Gobs of it clung to the ceiling, held by gossamer threads of wavering black. The only source of light crept in from the thin band of light that emanated from the two curtains, leaking over a desk filled with paperwork and onto the doctor who had collapsed upon it. Will saw that the whole room was awash in papers, many of which were torn and crumpled as if ravaged in the maw of some desperate animal.

Warthrop’s laptop sat teetering near the edge of the desk, but was kept from toppling over by the bookcase that flanked it. The small hint of light flickered wanly over the tableau as the little Windows logo fluttered gaily across the pitch black screen.

Not wanting to disturb the man any further, Will Henry turned away. But some of the paper snagged on the bottom of the door.

Curious, Will bent to pick it up. The all-too familiar text stared back at him. Will crouched and grabbed some of the other sheets, incomprehension dug deep into his face. Gingerly, Will collected them into his arms, the thin pieces crinkling against his shirtfront.

“Will Henry?”

The doctor awoke clumsily, sending a few more papers to the floor and knocking the laptop awake. Instantly the room was drenched in a false light, tinged with sickly blue.

“Will Henry, is that you?” The doctor turned to the boy, his eyes blinking wearily from their scooped sockets. The man looked awful, as if between his sleeping and his waking something had died.

Will edged up from the floor. “Yes, sir. I’m here.”

For some reason, that made the doctor laugh, a nearly soundless thing that didn’t sound like laughter at all. It petered out, the dregs of it catching upon his lips as they fell closed. He leant his head back, exposing his neck to the darkness that undulated about them. Though he shut his eyes, Will felt as though he was being observed where he stood. The doctor lay like that for a long while, the screen winking back out of existence before he spoke up again.

“What have we given, Will Henry?” His eyes regarded the ceiling, glittering in the gloom. His voice was soft and far-away, the lone cry of something lost. Will almost thought he had slipped into his oscillating melancholy, addressing something that only he could see, when the full-force of his gaze sliced towards Will, an unholy dark at odds with that which clung to him like fire. And he asked it again.

Will, being only an eleven-year-old child thrust into a world he did not completely understand, wasn’t sure what the man was asking. Warthrop continued to stare, awaiting his answer, until the stare began to unnerve him. He fidgeted with the papers, fingers intertwined with light and shadow. “I don’t know, sir. I’m not sure what you’re asking.”

Warthrop sighed and turned his head away. “Tell me, Will Henry. What do you think if I told you all we did was for naught?”

“You mean your work, sir?”

Warthrop shot Will a glare. “Yes. My work, Will Henry. What else have you been attending to for the past five months? It most certainly wasn’t your wit or your tendency towards obsequiousness.”

Stung, Will drew back into the light. “I’m sorry, sir.”

With a curt wave of his hand, Warthrop dismissed the sentiment. “Yes, yes, but what of my question, Will Henry?”

“I don’t… “Will’s eyes snapped to the papers upon the floor. “Has something happened to your work?” Voicing the thought aloud gave it corporal wings, fluttering maddeningly in the space between them.

“I-it wouldn’t be for nothing, sir. I mean, you were the one that found the answer. Even if it wasn’t…what you wanted, we could continue with your work?”

Warthrop stared at Will for so long, he wondered if the man had even heard what he’d said. Then he fell back, eyes cast up at the ceiling.

“That does seem my lot in life, doesn’t it? Like Sisyphus, am I doomed to toil forever beneath my burdens until they fall back down to earth, forever cursed to accomplish nothing? For right when my work is nearing its zenith, it all comes crumbling upon my head!” Voice high-pitched and tight, Warthrop vaulted straight out his chair, limbs jittering in the grainy dark.  

“I don’t understand it, Will Henry! How did the likes of Dr Yap and her ilk discover my project? I have not clapped eyes on her since her speech concerning the inclusion of new species into the Societal lexicon. She specifically stated she researched my involvement with the roundworms…so it wasn’t a coincidental thing on her part.” Papers crunched like dead leaves beneath his feet, as he sliced back and forth in the small room like Poe’s pendulum.

“Who is Dr Yap?”

Warthrop froze. Then he spun on his heel, arms locked behind his back. Everything about him was cast in complete calm, as if the very name was imbued with Medusa’s curse.

“Dr Yap is a professor who so happens to unfortunately share the same field as I,” replied Warthrop, tone flat and dead. “Every Congress that she doesn’t attend is a blessing to us all, although I will admit her colleagues are a more pleasant sort—though I have never figured out how they can work alongside her. She is very charismatic but also the most vindictive and intolerable woman in our entire field. But she is head of the South-East Asiatic Branch of the Society, currently housed in Singapore.

“I have no idea where her loathing of myself stems from, but given that my father was the one who established the branch in Singapore before their independence, I have cause to believe that may be her reason. We never get along and she does her utmost to undermine my efforts, especially if it concerns that particular region.”

Something niggled in Will’s mind, a curious sense of knowing who the doctor was talking about.

Warthrop broke free from his lecturer’s stance and resumed pacing. “That’s what I don’t understand. She dislikes my father, though his work there did not coincide with her own, seeing as she was only a mere child at the time and in his later years, he became quite reclusive and withdrawn into a fervor more to that of the religious variety rather than the scientific. The South-East Branch was established when my father was a young man still, one of his greatest accomplishments besides his research into the cure of several lesser known parasitic diseases. Despite his own flaws, my father was a great man towards the field of Monstrumology…” Something fell loose within the doctor and he paused, hands gripping the edge of the windowsill. Thin bars of sunlight wrapped themselves around his taut arms, fell across his face.

Will looked behind him into the hall. When he turned back, the doctor had almost disappeared, a remaining shapeless mass against the greater dark. Stepping carefully, Will made his way to Warthrop, picking up the discarded work upon the floor. Whether he heard Will or not, Warthrop made no sign. However, when he started to pick up the larger pile that sagged against the bookcase, Warthrop shook his head, “Leave it be, Will Henry. It is no use to us now.”

“What do you mean?”

“I…it cannot be published to the Society.”

“What? So you mean…it…we cannot help people with this information?”

“Where did I say that? I said it will not be published to the Society. It’ll be published, have no fear about that. But all our work will be attributed to the US Government’s initiative rather than our own. Many people chose to conduct their research with a large institution like the Smithsonian or with their own alumnus, but that usually means your work will be in conjunction with them, as they provided the funding. It is why I have chosen in my later years to work alone, Will Henry, but now…now I fear I may have miscalculated.” The doctor hadn’t moved an inch but as he said this, his shoulders hunched slightly, covering his ears as if he did not wish to listen to his own words.

Though Will did not understand the entire repercussions of this, the sight of Warthrop trapped within his own perceived failure, grasped desperately at Will. He reached, fingers curling in the ragged shirtsleeves of the doctor.

“I’m…I—is there anything I could do, sir?” In one hand, the papers. In the other, the man who had struggled and worked to create them. “Sir?”

Warthrop recoiled, breaking Will’s hold upon him. “Don’t you understand? There is nothing more you or I can do! All my work, under the seal of the United States, without a mention of my name to it because they wish to keep the public in the dark about it! And even worse, if they find a cure, all credit will go to that scientist—THAT SCIENTIST! Can you believe it? I lay the foundation for that scientist to gain full accolades for work that is rightfully mine!” The doctor panted, breathing harshly past bared teeth. “All I want at this moment—out of anything—is to understand how she came to know. My work…and now she knows. Her and her daughter…”

Warthrop hung his head, muttering to himself. “It had to be while we were in New York…but I don’t remember seeing her at the Society or the Bridge Café…” Even in the dim light, Will could see the rapid movement of the doctor’s eyes, chasing his thoughts as they sped past.  Suddenly he stood straight up, eyes wide and unseeing.                                                                                                                

“The girl in the chair…it must have been her—“

Warthrop whirled around, eyes fixed upon Will. “What was her name, Will Henry?” His voice rose in pitch, nearly cracking upon the boy’s name.

“Who?”

“The girl that I left you with in the Monstrumarium! What was her name?”

Will shrunk under the force of the man’s single-minded fervor, unsure of where his rampant train of thought was taking them. “It was Liane K-kyew, sir.”

It was as if Will had slapped him, the doctor stiffening into wild-eyed shock as he stared at the boy like some stranger. His mouth open and closed a few times before he finally found his voice again.

“You told her about my work.” It came out in a single breath; an accusation and not a question.

Will’s heart thudded. “I didn’t!” he said, voice rising with his emotion. “I didn’t tell anyone at all! And…and their names don’t match. I didn’t even want to talk to her because she was rude!”

“Do not raise your voice at me, Will Henry,” rebuked Warthrop evenly, hands balled tightly at his sides. “It is custom that they take and keep their father’s last name, but regardless—that was Dr Yap’s child! And it doesn’t even matter who or what—the point is you told them about my work! Something I explicitly told you not to do! And now you have betrayed me!”

The papers quaked in Will’s hands. “I didn’t betray you, sir—“

“Then was I merely dreaming of my conversation with Dr Yap? The foremost researcher on the other side of the globe? Who specifically called me regarding information she procured from _you_ —you of all people that I thought I could trust! How dare you, Will Henry!”

Will’s eyes hurt against the well of tears clustering in his eyes. The jeering laughter of Liane and her mother slammed full force, and it hurt. It hurt that the doctor lumped him in with them as an ally to the destruction of his work. Will had said nothing— _nothing!—_ to harm or discredit Dr Warthrop. It hurt worse than anything he had ever experienced, to have the one man he looked up to, to believe the very worst of him.

“I didn’t do anything!” cried Will, trying to keep his voice level. “I just talked to the girl that was there and that’s it—she wouldn’t leave me alone!”

“Oh, and is that why you told her about my research? To introduce some worthwhile conversation that your own pitiful intelligence couldn’t concoct itself? Even your father knew the importance of keeping my work to himself!”

“I didn’t do anything like that!” hollered Will, tears leaking down his face. “Everything I’ve done is for you! You don’t even talk about my father—it’s like he didn’t even mean anything to you! And I don’t know how she found out, but it’s not like it would’ve done anything differently—you still wouldn’t have been able to publish your work! You said so yourself!”

Suddenly the maddened form of Warthrop seized his vision. His hand flew back. In that crystalline moment of clarity, Will froze. He did not flinch. Nor did he flee.  He froze and waited for the doctor to strike.

The hand dropped to his side. The doctor’s eyes, framed in ghastly white, tore through the figure at his feet.

“You disgust me.”

He strode to the pile of papers in the corner of the room and sent them flying. Paper ripped beneath his feet, the sound pealing through the room like a thunder crack.

“You disgust me!” he roared, whirling on the boy, papers fluttering about his person like ashes. “You unintelligent, open-mouthed piece of snot. You presume to know what would have come of my project, the child without one speck of brain matter in his pitiful skull than _I_ , the man who has dedicated everything that I am for this? Do you even hear yourself? Without your damnable, sycophantic existence ruining everything I have sacrificed, this would have been it! But no, you had to spill the secrets to the one person in the whole of Monstrumology that would enjoy nothing more than to watch my work suffer! In all his years with me, in all the dangers we had faced together, not once did your father betray my confidence! You have completely and utterly failed me! What? Have I made you angry? Speak!”

The papers fell out of Will’s hands as he fought not to throw himself at Warthrop. “I haven’t done anything wrong!” he yelled. “All I’ve done is what you asked! Always calling for me—Will Henry! Will Henry! And I always listen to you! Always! And now…now you still aren’t listening to anything I say! You never do!” Will choked upon his words, angrily swiping away at his eyes. “I-I—“

“What is the one thing—the one measly thing I have asked of you, Will Henry?” The doctor’s voice was deceptively calm.

Will shook. The doctor’s anger was a palpable thing, even beneath that veneer of composure. He stammered out a response. “T-to be by your side, sir. To be loyal—”

“And you couldn’t even grant me that!” roared Warthrop, bearing down upon Will. “Curse you, and curse your father for dying and burdening me with you! I did not ask for this—I did not ask for this to happen!”

Warthrop broke, splintering to the ground upon his knees. One minute he was standing. The next he fell, his shadowed form shattering into the open quay of light. He looked so thin and worn, leveled in the harsh light of day. Will made a small movement—whether to run or to aid, he couldn’t answer.

Warthrop further collapsed, waving Will away. “Just…go, Will Henry. Pack your things.”

Will cracked. His hands began to shake violently, even as they held each other against his heart.

“Sir?”

Warthrop rose from the ground, an amalgamation of flesh reanimated.

“You have failed me.”  He whispered it, yet it thundered louder than anything else. More piercing than the blood rushing in Will’s veins. “And…if I don’t do this, I will have failed you...and your father.”

There are words, mere sounds that dissolve in the air once their intent had been acknowledged. Then there are words held as closely as one would a treasure, locked within the deepest recesses of one’s heart. Then there are those words, words that can crack a world in half. A single cry, the treacherous embrace of sound and sentiment until everything shatters.

Tread carefully, lest your feet be shorn upon the shrapnel that hadn’t lodged itself in your heart!

The work, his father’s stories. The paternal gestures, a job well done. Working together.

Will looked down.

Bare feet scraping against the floor. Head snapping up.

Only he remains.

“You’re punishing me.”

When Warthrop didn’t respond, Will lurched forward, screaming, “I haven’t done anything wrong! You can’t send me away!” Will could hardly contain his fury when Warthrop continued to remain as still and dead, a hanged man wrapped in ropes of shadow.

“I hate you! What…what was I to you? Nothing but…but your slave! Will Henry, Will Henry! _Snap to, Will Henry!_ And now you are throwing me away because…because of this! I didn’t do anything but help you! You’re nothing…nothing but yourself! That’s all you are—full of yourself! I hate you!”

He didn’t know how he got upstairs. Upstairs to single thing that was even remotely his own. But even that wasn’t his, just like a cage wasn’t really owned by the animal that lived in it. 

Tears ripping down his face, Will screamed into the rafters, a monstrous mutation of a boy bound in his grief and anger. What did it matter that trapdoor was shut? He was sure the doctor could hear every heart-rending scream, every swipe of his dripping face.

Everything pressed in, squeezing and tightening his entire world in a vise, until the very sliver he now stood upon cut into his feet, urging him to topple into the twin maws on either side. _What was the point in anything anymore?_

The doctor didn’t care about anything. His father. His family. Or himself.

Just his stupid, stupid work.

Everything was for him and his stupid work! The same work that stole his father away from him while he was still alive.

Will tore the sheets off his bed, clawing them frantically and seeking escape from the uproar of emotion. Linens sprung off the bed. Toppled to the ground. Pillows were hurled against the dresser, knocking over the very few belongings he owned. The dull sound of something breaking didn’t even register in his head. Will grasped, pulled, yanked; tore everything apart in his fury until the old mattress lay bare, a stripped carcass upon the destroyed floor.

Will howled and turned to the dresser, ripping out the drawers. He hurled everything out, every inch of destruction to belongings that didn’t belong. The clothes. The bedding.

He yanked off his shoes and threw them across the room.

Nothing! Nothing! It was all for nothing!

Will froze as he almost swept the rest of the trinkets off his dresser.

Those too. They were not his either. Little bits of nonsense that Dr Chanler and Malachi and Jules had given him. People that he’d never see again.

Will looked the teeming mass at his feet.

He would never see them again.

Suddenly the pile seemed to lurch upwards, a monstrous beast of human effluvia. Will let out a cry, scrambling to reach his bed amidst the choking wreckage. Each piece of clothing seemed to grab around his ankles and try to pull him under.

Will threw himself on the stripped mattress like a drowning man upon the wreck of ship meant to save him. He lay there, face cushioned against the stained and discolored fabric. Short pants squeezed his insides, desperate to wring him dry. Against the wall, a lone cut of light slowly dwindled downwards, scattered bits of it flitting upon the remains of his room.

 But Will could not bring himself to care. And that is what finally broke his heart.  

A raiment of tears bedecked the mattress.

The burden of everything, everything, slid off his shoulders and toppled to the floor into soundless crash.  The overwhelming burden to constantly _do_ , to remain trapped in the amber of someone’s _what should be._

Running, running. Always running to do whatever it was he was told to do.

All around him, his belongings dissolved into non-descript lumps of black, a smoldering ruin around his bed beneath the window. As the light slid across his bed and escaped back through the small pane, Will spied the lone hat upon its single peg. The single remnant of his life before the doctor. And the single remnant of a promise he had so desperately wanted.

With a sob, Will buried his face into the mattress and openly cried. Burning, each lick of hot tears burning like the acrid chewing of alcohol and fire deep within his flesh. Sobs echoed like the last pops of gunfire.

All around, the discarded remains of his onslaught loomed around him; the spent shell of a boy the only thing that remained.

 

***

 

John came and took Will away a week after that.

It was like an absurd play where the few actors present wouldn’t look each other in the eye and everyone tread an invisible No Man’s Land. When Will had opened the door by himself and silently went upstairs to grab his backpack, John’s mouth was set in a grim line, eyes piercing straight through the seemingly empty house.

John had asked Will more than once whether or not his tiny backpack was all that he owned. After the third time, Will wanted to lash out even though he felt upset afterwards for even thinking that way. There was no reason to be mad at Dr Chanler. But it angered him that the man didn’t believe that Will _had_ packed all he owned.

Though it was August, Will wore his hand-me-down hoodie, refusing to pack it away. Perched atop his head like a boy playing dress-up, was his hat. Though it was much too small, smelled of smoke and kept sliding off of Will’s untamed hair, Will also refused to remove it. It had been raining all day and though it had dwindled to a drizzle, Will used that as an excuse to get the man off his back.

With a chagrined, yet worried expression towards Will, John turned back to the house. His voice rang shrilly through the house, a leftover challenge to the last remaining occupant to come and reclaim what he was letting go.

“Warthrop! Don’t do this again—Warthrop!” Furious, John had vaulted inside, hands snapping open as if to wrest Warthrop from whatever refuge he had taken. “Pellinore, please—“

John whirled and there stood Will Henry, his little mop of hair the only thing visible, head cast down to the floor and grasping John’s hand in his. Then Will shook his head, hand twisting against John’s, anchoring him to the floor.

Stricken, John flung his gaze back into the empty house. He was breathing heavily, jaw working past words he wished to say. He swallowed them, entire body straining as if there was a call he needed to answer, something that whispered unto his own being. But Will would not let go.

John returned his gaze ahead, his eyes a calm wilderness of blue. Then without warning he wrapped his free arm around Will and gathered the boy into his chest. His lips murmured something fervently into his hair, a baptismal prayer that Will could not hear or understand. Everything roared and clamored inside of him, rushing to prevent the onslaught of tears that threatened to spill over onto the man who had come to take him away.

He couldn’t allow something so pathetic to be made real.

John stood up and cupping the back of Will’s head, led him out the door. Casting one final glance back, John waited. Then with a sigh, he shut the door leaving the two of them adrift on the doctor’s porch.

Beyond the isolated neighborhood, the final scape of sun simmered wetly atop the treetops. It had stopped raining completely and the remains were scattered everywhere, dripping forlornly in the silence. Evaporation curled and twined throughout the foliage, their vaporous coils undulating as if the earth breathed beneath them.

Keeping to the weed-cracked sidewalk, John helped pack Will into his convertible and even pulled down the collapsible roof, despite Will ignoring his question regarding it. Chandler asked several more but for Will, the man had ceased to exist. The only thing his eyes saw, the only thing that registered was the worn-down façade in front of him. His own little attic window blank and unseeing. Not a single light was on to see him off.  Not the parlor or the study. And neither was either of the doctor’s two bedroom windows.

It was truly as if not a soul remained.

Like Will, John kept his gaze on Warthrop’s house, even as he tucked a cell phone under his ear. Once it picked up, John relayed something to the other end, sagging against the driver’s seat as he listened. Then with a goodbye and promise for further detail, he hung up and tossed the device into the passenger seat. Carding his hand through his hair, he sighed, sinking further into his seat. He remained like that for a long while before finally buckling up and starting the engine.

They left and with a single turn, 425 Harrington Lane vanished, swallowed up by the wooded expanse around it.

The radio played softly, the recorded voices seemingly lost and sad as they drifted alongside John and Will. The highway was empty, a constant sway of forest and farmland alongside the winding road. Only a fellow car here and there emerged from the oncoming dark, tossing handfuls of insignificant droplets that fell on the windshield or dotted Will’s cheeks. 

As Will huddled in his seat behind John, hair licking at his dry eyes, the sun finally disappeared behind its diaphanous shroud of pinks and lavenders, leaving the world coated in a gown of shimmering blacks. Racing beneath him beat the steady refrain of the open road, vaporous froth churning in the maddened spit from the car. Above, the velvet sky blanketed the earth, robbing it of its sight save for a few cheap starry baubles flung carelessly atop it.

As he bared himself to the sky, Will wanted nothing more than to have died in that fire. Anything but this festering ball of hurt and loneliness that infested his stomach until he wanted tear himself apart and purge himself of the feeling.

Never before had he hated anyone more than Dr Pellinore Warthrop.

His head lolled, hair pricking his forehead from the chewing wind. Upon his upturned palms came a dull itch like the prick of teeth. But Will had no desire to move them, even to relieve himself of that feeling. Anything, anything but that hollowed hole filled with nothing but hatred for the man who had betrayed him with his cowardice.

The strange unwinding continued in his heart, unraveling as the landscape slowly sidled past as if they too, were eager to leave him. It was so tangled, tightly knotted as if he had dropped it and the threads had become so entwined, there was no way to fix it without breaking it.

Will had spent the week watching his world change, emotions flipping as if he couldn’t make up his mind. His shock at the failure of their work and his being cast aside like one of Warthrop’s mismatched socks quickly fell to shame. He knew his stay was tentative and through his own carelessness, destroyed the very thing that gave the doctor his purpose for all those months. But always— _always!—_ Will would choke in confusion afterwards ( _And you, Will Henry, have been a most indispensable assistant_ ). And then the anger. The white-hot mass of anger as dense as a thousand suns lodged in his throat until all he wanted to do was find the doctor and scream in his face—at his unfairness, at giving him false hope—for nothing!

All week, Will couldn’t eat. Couldn’t sleep. During their ride, John nudged Will from his half-awake musings to ask if he wanted to stop, but Will only shook his head.

When they arrived in New York, despite being late in the evening the city was fully awake, lights and signs flickering for attention in the night. But it was all a yellowish blur to Will as he continued to reside in the tar pit of his emotions.

Parking on the curb, John helped Will out of the vehicle, maneuvering Will around some disjointed bricks and dirty puddles that shone under the drizzle of a streetlamp. Then unlocking the door, he led Will inside.

Everything was the same in John’s apartment. Shoes went on the same shelf in the little tiled vestibule. Jackets and hoodies on the hook behind the door. Even the couch was pristine, with no rumpled throw or indentation to show anyone sat or slept there. As John trudged wearily into the kitchen, that’s when Will saw it.

A fruit bowl on the dining table.

Dr Chanler looked over to Will.  Said something to him. Nodded.

Nothing in his house had changed. The same tasteful prints of singular flower stalks hung in the open living room. Little ornaments of bric-a-brac lined the tiny tables as if made for nothing else. But on the dining room table lay that bowl of fruit.

Carefully, Will eased the chair from the table. Then he sat in it. In front of him lay the bowl. It had the standard mix: bright red apples, an occasional green pear and a small bunch of bananas, some already plucked from the bundle.

Something smelled softly of flowers; a sweet scent held with alcohol.

A plate appeared. There were apples on it, cut into neat slices. Then there was a glass of milk.

Startled, Will jerked his gaze upwards. And fell into the concerned gazes of John and Muriel—her with her auburn hair and spring eyes and him with his soft blue, one hand rubbing the shock of beard upon his jaw as he said something to his wife.

It was too much.

Will shattered, falling apart into his arms.

***


	22. Reparations

The room was bathed in pale green light, the polluted absinthe teeming milkily across the ceiling in sinewy ribbons. It shimmered sweetly, a bygone promise to deter thoughts unheeded.

A soft rustling came from the bed, thin hands wrapping around a thinner torso, as if to hold something back. Despite the sweat dotting his brow, the window was closed, allowing only the waning afternoon light to filter through and heightening the scent of unwashed linens and oily hair. The room returned to silence, save the subtle breathing of the man twisted upon the counterpane, bare feet exposed and tucked against his body. He felt sticky beneath his old shirt, but he couldn’t bring himself to change.  

He just wanted to sleep. He was so tired. He didn’t know when it had happened but the tiredness had seeped into his bones like cancer—sapping, leeching, consuming whatever remained of him as he lay upon that stale and musty bed. He opened his eyes as sleep refused to come and something shifted beyond the window, blanching the washed-out rug in bursts of feathery catkin light.

It sickened him, that merry existence of dappled light. Revolting and constantly breaking into his room despite doing his best to shut it out. He had given up, allowing it to do as it pleased, teasing and berating him with its unceasing jollity and consistency.

The man rolled over, seeking refuge against the wall. Damp linen clung to his skin, as desperate as a child’s fingers. He ignored that too, hunching his shoulders. He didn’t want to think about anything.

Nothing. Nothing at all.

Because even if he did, even if he wanted to capture one of the thoughts that flitted in and out of his sight like moths skirting a wayworn lamp, he couldn’t bring himself to try. Every sinew, every ligament and every muscle felt leaden, fixated to the bed like an addict to his favorite apparatus. 

Sometimes he wondered if dying was like this. An indulgent wasting away of mind and body until nothing was left. Like a carcass left to rot, bleached and scavenged until all that lingered was the sarcastic grin of God’s own cynicism. 

But he couldn’t bring himself to care.

The room blurred, everything disintegrating into a child’s mess of color. Everything, rotting. Everything, leaving. All that remains, the dusty foundation, the scraps—worthless!

Worthless, _worthless_ , for what is there to separate these bones from countless others that have done nothing with their life? Toss them in a heap and there is _nothing!_ Fragments torn from the soil, tilled into dust and forgotten. Poppies may adorn where one lays, twining their thin stalks upon your brow and opening their crimson petals to the sun, but you—you are the fodder from which it sprouts. And that is your only worth in a world that continues to live without you.

You, who did not matter.

_Pellinore, Pellinore. As always, I find you slaving away for nothing. Haven’t you realized? Where you attempt to stand, there have been others better that have rightfully earned the path upon which they now tread. But you—you continue in your pig-headedness to be useless!_

_Always for your own good, and you threw it out!_

_You selfish boy!—is that all you ever think about? What you want to do? What about all the people who are caught up in your selfish desires—but no, I wouldn’t imagine you even giving an iota’s worth of thought to those around you…_

What little color left melted into shadow, the twisting rivulets coursing down his father’s walls. In the corner, standing empty, was his mother’s rocker until that too, was devoured by the dark; a living dripping entity that bled from the walls and stole across the room. It crept up his cast-off blanket, climbed atop his curled form and lay beside him on the counterpane, the spurned lover taking its long awaited due.

But he did not care.

Instead he laughed. A scraping sound removed with so little finesse that it tore apart his throat and emitted more of a gurgle than any resemblance of mirth. He laughed because no matter how corporal it had always become, it had always shied away with the single lonely figure, his talisman to ward off its unwanted advances. But the doorway was tarred in pitch and the single rocker stood empty, festering in the shadow’s gullet.

To think, such a monstrous thing could be afraid of something so small.

But then again, not all tales reveal that sometimes it is the monster who is the biggest coward of them all.

 

***

 

Soft footsteps, like that of a lost child, where the only sign that someone still existed in the house on the corner of Harrington Lane.

Time stayed still and time moved on, an ouroboros that writhed through the choking weeds and fallen branches and the mailbox brimming with letters. The Daytona still sat cross-legged upon the driveway, nature’s effluvia adorning it like a crown of discarded flowers.

Few people talked, wondering if once again the strange doctor had left on one of his frequent jaunts. Fewer people still, wondered about the small boy that sometimes wandered the yard, speculating on what became of him. It was good gossip, the afternoon pick-me-up for the small God-fearing neighborhood already used to discussing the strange happenings at the house of Warthrop. But just like all good gossip, there wasn’t an ounce of actual concern to garner much more than the passing thought here and there.  

Time stood as obstinate as the sea, refusing to move no matter how hard Pellinore sought to distract it with his logical reasoning or copious amounts of sleep. Time merely sneered in his face every time he awoke from his stupor, feeling more exhausted than when he finally won his scant respite from the thoughts and memories that clogged his brain.

Time was devious in its scheming. It languished upon the house, a dust-filled miasma that quelled all sense of living, suppressing appetite, sleep and activity. Pellinore’s head ached with a longing to do anything…anything just to have the basic human right to say that he had accomplished something worthy of the time he wasted. But it was to no avail. Once he tried, everything became useless, turning to ashes within his hands.

He had to do something. He had to do something or else he would be overwhelmed. He started to run low on groceries and clean clothes. He hadn’t shaved in weeks and his unwashed hair poked and prodded his tired eyes. Dishes piled high and once when he tried to clean them, they self-destructed into shards, embedding themselves into his hands. With a cry, he tore out the offending remains and hurled them to the ground until all that existed was his own harsh breathing and the bone-white wreckage of his dinnerware set.

Blindly grasping for his broom, Pellinore sagged against it, the ever-constant companion to his previous assistants, now taking it for his own support. Slowly, he removed the cast-off remnants, sweeping them onto an old piece of paper. It tumbled like sand against his work ( _useless…useless_ ) and tinkled like coin into the overfilled rubbish bin. He swept under everything, cleansing the battlefield of his emotion, collecting the dust, glass, food…and buried his paperwork along with it.

Days passed as such. It was a hard-earned victory to get one thing accomplished. One day he remembered to shower, though he had no towels. The next day he did the laundry, but the dryer refused to work. So after hurling all the damp laundry back into the washer, eyes burning hot and a nauseated feeling in his chest, he retired for the day, whole body quivering atop the bare mattress as if he had been electrocuted. Sleep, disgusting entity it was, spat in the face of his body’s pleas for rest. So after hours of staring up at the ceiling, Pellinore dragged himself free from the bed and staggered around the house, draping socks and shirts over anything and everything he could find.

On the days he found a hidden reserve of energy, he threw himself into his work with a suicidal fury, tattooing very last thought onto any paper he could find. He revised his old notes. Reread his research. Reread old tomes to add to his research. Looked for lines of inquiry in his neglected emails. Tore to his stuffed mailbox, which bore mail as old as two weeks.

But it wasn’t enough. No matter what he did, it wasn’t what he so desperately wanted, so it was never enough. The piles upon piles of accomplished edits or interesting lines of inquiry jeered at him from everywhere: upon his tables, spilling onto the chairs and floor, or glaring from the computer screen. It was all he could do not to eradicate their worthlessness into the abandoned fireplace.

He ran feverish, not even taking time to eat or sleep, seeking something that he could not grasp. No matter what he did, time stretched, straining until Pellinore felt as if he was disintegrating into nothingness. He existed upon an event horizon, time slipping through his fingers with the endless refrain of insignificance spiraling through his head with a siren’s cry, driving him headlong into the rocks.

The only thing that provided respite was sleep, but even he was denied that. Like a jealous lover, it eluded him, beguiling in its promise as he collapsed upon his bed. But it was ruthless in its treatment of him. With striking celebrity, it ransacked the deepest, most polluted vestiges of his soul, snatching handfuls and thrusting them into purview. Thoughts and memories that shook Pellinore to his very core as if he was upon the Judgement Day. Dreams, thoughts threaded like serpents, were snatched by fistfuls and thrust from the darkest recesses of his despair.

Everything he did. Worthless. His hands shook, joints jittering until he wanted to tear everything to shreds.

Everything slowed, a doddering drooling effigy to his failure. No one was going to see his work. No one would understand that it was he who toiled, who sweated, who starved for the work they would take, tear apart like dogs on a carcass. They would take the remains, fashioning them into their very own scientific achievement as one would an ivory broach. 

After all, who cared about the original discovery if they had the very thing that eradicated it? No one loves the monstrous beginning, the dark and dirty work that made most men recoil in horror. No…pretty pictures painted pleasant lies, so only the one that vanquishes the horror was the one rewarded.

James saw though that. James, with his smiling face even when everything had gone awry time and time again. His laughter as he took Pellinore’s hands in his to continue them both down his chosen path when all he wanted to do was collapse. The man who would follow him to the ends of the earth if he but asked.

It was James; James who paid the tremendous debt of his work. Who succumbed to the singular nightmare that Pellinore spent his life fending away. A man lost in the wilderness builds a fire to keep the all-consuming dark and effigies of monsters at bay, and so did Pellinore. But sometimes that wasn’t enough.

It is human folly to forget that the greatest monster of all lives within fire. A monster that chews whole lives and memories and scatters the ashes until their very existence is eradicated. A monster whose very existence is owed to the victim upon which it feeds. Perhaps that was why the gods punished Prometheus so dearly…

Pellinore dug his heels into his eyelids, banishing his sight to darkness.

He did the right thing. That was all he did. Hadn’t his own father done the very same thing for himself? What was the price of what he had done?

The adoration veiled behind gold and green.

A small hand tugging at his sleeve, the same breathless wonder at the splendor around him. The same breath that passed through his own lips, and then again on another.

_What is all of this? It’s truly wondrous…never before in all my years have I seen such a thing…_

The Amazonian expedition? Dresden? The Everglades—what was the point? What did it even matter? Everything they had worked towards, what did it matter—

Pellinore shot up from the bed, a circlet of sweat plastering his brow. He called out into the darkness, a cry barely louder than the blood thrashing in his veins.

Nothing.

He called again, the incantation nearly tearing from his lips, borne from the ache that twined about his heart. But the apparition did not appear upon his threshold, light at his back and spilling about his small form, feathery and bright.

Nothing remained, a sentinel to his shameful weakness.

Pellinore tore from the bed and brushed past it, running pell-mell as it nipped at his heels. Clinging to the railing, he flew down the stairwell and locked himself in his study, surrounded by his work, his literature, everything that defined who he was.

Pulling the phone from its stand with shaky hands, he cradled it to his cheek and in the dark found the phone number so familiar to his memory.

It had to work, it just had to. There was no evidence that it shouldn’t—

The dial tone rang once. Twice. Then it picked up. The hairs froze on Pellinore’s body. Everything stood still, hovering, waiting, a yawning maw that awaited the voice upon the other end. 

“Hello? This is the Nickman’s--“

The phone clattered to the ground. With trembling hands, Pellinore tried to put it back into its holder. The man’s confused voice filled the claustrophobic space and like a pair of unseen hands, crushed the sound from Pellinore’s own throat. He became frantic, trying desperately to shove the phone back to stave off the horrifying sound. But the phone refused to fit, clawing at the wall. 

Something tore free within, something raw and fetid like a decayed animal too long trapped and entangled in its human snare. With an inhuman cry, Pellinore slammed the phone back and spun around until he pressed flush against the wall, heart struggling maddeningly against the piercing grasp of his ribcage.

He fell, body scraping downwards until he curled tightly upon the ground, hugging his knees to his chest and body draped protectively over itself. Unwilling to allow it to remain witness to his folly, to his human weakness of believing in the sweet disposition of willful ignorance, Pellinore hid his face in his arms, huddled beneath the phone and the last remaining trace of James’ existence.


	23. What Do We Deserve?

A tincture of alcohol and paint blossomed across the sky in gentle pastels, melding outwards to banish the pre-dawn grey. By the time the Triumph had arrived at its destination, the sky was saturated in a pristine and unmarred blue.  

The man frowned when he eyed the car in the driveway, overburdened with scraps of leaf and pine. It wasn’t unusual but it was unexpected, and lent a more cautious movement to his equipment removal. Securing the helmet to the backseat and tucking his keys into his thin waistcoat, the man surveyed the rest of his surroundings.

Besides the infection of weeds and an excess of felled sticks and pinecones, nothing looked out of the ordinary. The rhododendron and its lopsided hemlock sat like Munch paintings on the border of wilderness that engulfed the house and what passed for its property, barely deterring the tide of forest that threatened to gorge itself on the neglected and pitiful lawn. A couple of jays screeched overhead, bickering amongst themselves as several mulberries plopped to the ground.

The grass whispered a silent entreaty, swaying as if guiding the visitor towards the faded porch, bleached to an ashen grey in the oculus of the unrelenting sun. His boots maneuvered along the strangled sidewalk, rife with clotted weeds, and petal pink seeds skittered from his presence like the leavings of a disturbed wake. The porch creaked, crying out in protest as he stepped atop it, the prolific shrubbery brushing against his exposed arms.  

Suddenly the man froze.

A single crack sliced the door open from its frame, its latch and lock undone and exposed. It shifted loosely in the wind, creaking inwards. A minuscule movement. Unnoticeable. His breath hitched, heart slowly straining against the straightjacket of scar tissue that bound it.

With barely any warning, a gleaming butterfly knife flitted to life within steady hands, the sheen of iridescent teeth peeking through his fingers. With the barest touch, he gingerly brushed his fingertips against the door, carefully guiding it open.

Tucking his weapon against his wrist, he hid it from view and kept his fingers flush against the blade. He stepped into the silent house, the eddying tide of dirt and dust swirling at his feet before escaping outside.

The whole house smelled stale and only recently lived in, as if all the occupants had simply disappeared in the midst of activity. In the parlor, everything was left intact as he remembered though all the curtains were shut, shrouding it with dark despite it being nearly noon. To his right was the study, where piles of papers were heaped against messy and misaligned bookshelves. Old leatherbacks littered the ground like abandoned refugees. The man frowned.

Stalking past the empty dining room, a cursory glance into the library told him his quarry was not there. But like the study, the library had the same treatment, though to a much larger scale.

Upon reaching the end of the hall, he paused beneath the open archway, narrowed eyes taking in the tableau before him. Though the floor was clean save a few lost spoons and bits of paper, the kitchen was a reprehensible mess. Piled high in the sink was at least a week’s worth of dishes, all mostly cups and mugs. The trash was overflowing with papers, wrappers and empty cartons alongside a matching overfilled recycling bin. But what was most extraordinary of all, was all the clothes hanging from the chair and open cabinetry doors.

Socks, pants and several shirtsleeves where draped over every available vertical surface, each item wrinkled and thrown haphazardly as if its owner simply disrobed in the middle of the kitchen. Even the open basement door had a pair hanging over it as well as a single sock upon the doorknob.

The man’s lips curled, jaw clenched as he let it sink in, precipitate lead in his stomach. He ripped his gaze away, sucking air between his teeth and strode out of the room, one hand at his throat. Dust scattered in his wake, taking to the staid air in a shimmering mess as he climbed the stairs almost two at a time, yet still not making more than the merest breath of sound.

On the landing, more clothes draped over the railing as well as the ladder that hung to his right, like the row houses in Salford, washed-out and hung forlornly as if their owner had no need of them any longer. 

The bathroom and the guest room door was open and bereft of any sign of being used. Without another look, the man swiftly strode towards the final room at the end of the hall, not even checking other guest room. Feral eyes never strayed, remaining fixed ahead as he shoved the door open, knife gleaming past slightly damp fingertips.

Everything fell hushed, churned dust falling at his feet like cinders. Sunlight struggled from the half-curtained window and the barest hint of it, soft ochres and a pale, pale blue lay upon Warthrop’s sunken features like frail birds.

The visitor’s hand tightened, knife biting into his palm, before retreating into his boot. His movement, the smallest ripple in the stagnant air, awoke the man upon the bed and Kearns found himself once again held in eyes of impossible black, peering at him from the shadows.

 

***

 

There was someone in his room.

He felt it, an electrifying air as if someone took a lifeless pond and revitalized it, churning up the muck and dead growth until it was unsullied enough to revive once again.

At first he had ignored it, too wrapped up in his own exhaustion to even want to pay heed. But when he heard it, that small sound as soft as a blossom’s caress and as loud as his name from beyond the room, Pellinore’s heart quickened.

He snapped awake, eyes falling instantly to the doorway.

But it wasn’t Will Henry that stood at the entrance. Nor was it James. It wasn’t even Robert, who wanted to come over but relented when Pellinore warded him off with excuses of work and travel.  

No, it was the person he least expected—the one person he least wished to witness the vulnerability he fought to conceal. His heart stammered harshly within his body.

“Kearns?” Pellinore croaked, voice rough and unshod. He sat up, unwilling to have those shackled eyes looking down upon him from where he stood.

Kearns’ face was blank, dark eyes inscrutable as they retreated in the shadows of his face. He didn’t come closer. Instead, he remained in the doorway, his form upheld by the darkness at his back and from the strip of sunlight that melted at his feet. It flung flecks of gold upon his figure, fracturing him.

He stood like that for a long time, neither of them moving save the soft rise and fall of their breathing. Eyes sought the other but in the skittering gloom and melding shadows, it was impossible. A pair fell, watching thin fingers cord through his blanket.

They fell and the other pounced.

“Why did you call me, Pellinore?” Kearns’ voice feathered at the edges, as if the words themselves bled into the stolid air between them.

A bewildered look stole across Pellinore’s face before it fell back to impassivity. He coughed once, rubbed his whiskery jaw and shrugged. “It was merely an accident,” he confessed. “I was trying to delete an unnecessary phone number, but…yes, an accident. That’s all it was.”

“I see.”

Kearns lifted his face towards the spill of light escaping from the lone window. He eyed the nightstand with its collection of dirty cups, the pile of laundry seeking refuge under the bed and the rumbled sheets with its stale odor. He wavered, boots scraping against the boundary as his gaze shifted, his predator’s eyes turning empty and cryptic, hidden behind the animalistic sheen of black.

“You finally did what you wanted.” His voice had the same merry quality it always had, the long-time friend paying visit. But it rang flat, like fool’s gold. Kearns smiled and leaned against the doorjamb, arms crossed over his chest. “You have to be relishing all your free time now, Pellinore. No more child to take care of, no more meaningless drudgery regarding school or legalities, mm? Will Henry is gone and you are free to do what you wish. So what is the matter?”

Warthrop frowned deeply, whiskered cheeks pulled taut over bone. He twisted his head towards Kearns. “There is nothing that is the matter, Kearns,” he bit out, hands clenching the sheets. “I am doing absolutely fine without anyone.”

“Is that so?”

“Yes, I am. As you can see, I’m currently not feeling quite well at the moment, which you might have known if you had given me the cordiality of knocking first like a civilized human being.”

Kearns chuckled softly, hands tightening around his arms. “My, my. Isn’t that the pot calling the kettle black?”

“I’m not in the mood, Kearns.”

“Shall I come back at a later time then? I do hate to interrupt your scintillating reverie.”

As soon as Kearns moved, Warthrop flinched. His teeth tugged at his bottom lip, nearly splitting the chafed skin. Then he looked back at Kearns, agitation infecting his entire body as he fought for something he did not understand.

“No. I…now that you are here—no.” He bowed his head, hands running through his hair. His gaze stayed moored to the light flowing lapping gently at his toes.

Kearns answered, his steady footfalls keeping to the quay of melting grey. Warthrop’s entire body sagged, hands unthreading and falling between his thighs, dangling in the empty air. Kearns halted at Warthrop’s side, staring down on his shaggy unkempt hair.

“Are you afraid?” he asked, voice so uncharacteristically serious, that Pellinore’s gaze was pulled upwards, their eyes meeting for the first time since his return.

“I cannot be afraid, Kearns. How can I be, when all I’ve done is the right thing?” His gaze fell. “We will both be happier for the outcome. It is what we both need.”

“Is it though?”

Anger sparked through Warthrop’s limbs and his hands leapt to his knees. “What do you even know, Kearns? _Look at me._ I am a renowned scientist in the one of the most dangerous fields that exists on this earth. It is a field that has no need of a child. It was because of him that I could not accompany you on your trip to Puerto Rico, where if I did, I might have managed to produce my greatest find—the one thing that I have lived for all my life! You understand that!”

Warthrop shook his head. “But, now—now I have nothing. Not the recognition I deserve and not the work I’ve toiled relentlessly for. All of it—gone.” He thrust the sheets away from himself in disgust, lips pulled in a snarl.

“Excuse me if I am mistaken, but is it truly gone?” asked Kearns with an air of nonchalance. “You might be a scientist, Pellinore, but I’ve always held that you always allow your logic to fall prey to more romantic and sentimental notions. As long as we walk this earth, there are things that want to eat us—and quite voraciously, I might add. There will always be more, even as you and I lie in our graves. And years long after that.

“So where’s that dogged tenacity I witnessed in Dresden? Istanbul? The Amazon? One fails and in return, sharpens their claws climbing back out of that festering hell. Or is it something more?”

When Pellinore did not answer, Kearns straightened, a small noise issuing past his lips. “It’s him, isn’t it? Do you feel indebted towards something you did not do?”

Warthrop’s head shot up, teeth bared as he snapped, “How would you know, Kearns? You weren’t even _there_.” Something took hold of Warthrop and he slammed his fist into the bed, eyes wrenched shut. “I wasn’t even there, for God’s sake, so don’t you dare presume to understand what I am not even privy towards!”   

Something retreated across Kearns’ face and he took a step back.

Instantly Pellinore’s breath tangled in his throat, a thousand heartbeats thrashing to escape. He rose from the bed, directly across from where Kearns stood motionless.

He’d seen that face before.

But never on Kearns.

Pellinore’s heart raced and his pallor took on the look of corrupted marble. He licked his lips before turning his head, eyes unseeing and refusing to do so.

“I am not afraid,” he repeated firmly, whether to himself or Kearns, they did not know. “I’m not afraid because I’m not fit. Will Henry deserves a home and I have no home to offer. I wasn’t fit to be the son my father wanted and my work does not allow me to fulfill a familial role the world demands. It’s madness to think so, when I could die or become sick from the very thing that sustains me. To be guardian to my devoted friend’s last remaining legacy of himself and taint him too? I cannot allow it. This is all I can give.”

“This isn’t a kindness, Pellinore. That boy wanted to be with you.”

Warthrop whirled on Kearns, emotion rushing into his pallid face and bathing it an ugly patchy red. “What nonsense are you spewing now? Everything I have done, I’ve done for the well-being of that boy!”

Kearns looked down into Warthrop’s flashing eyes, his own blank and cold. “Really, Pellinore? Does your willful ignorance stretch truly that far? Not that I am concerned with what happens to you or that boy. But when the evidence is heaped all around and hangs like festering sores upon your body, just how much of a hypocrite can you get?

“You told me you were going to send him away so you could work in peace and without his existence about your neck. Well, here you have it! Is it not what you wished? So what are you complaining for?”

Without allowing Pellinore to answer, Kearns closed the space between them. “But we both know the answer, Pellinore. You insult my intelligence otherwise. In the back of your mind you know the truth, yet you refuse to acknowledge it! I ask you, Pellinore, is anyone fit for what they do? Or is it a matter of wanting it so desperately, so earnestly that you are willing to earn every last ounce of it? Will you deny what that boy so desperately wants, in the name of your misguided goodwill? Will you deny him that?” His teeth snapped together, mere inches from Warthrop’s face. Yet Warthrop did not move, save for the tightening of the fists at his sides.

Two heartbeats fought against the confines of their prison, calling softly across the expanse of mere inches. Despite their desperate fluttering, the expanse was too vast: it was as if they did not exist to the other, their pleas unheeded.

“It is not what he deserves,” answered Pellinore softly, not looking Kearns.

Kearns ripped his eyes from Warthrop and strode to the door. He turned, snatched Pellinore’s stricken gaze with his own narrowed one and spat, “Cowards die many times before their death, Warthrop. I did not know of your latest plans to join them. I thought better of you. Now here I am the fool. How dare you disappoint me. _How dare you.”_

Kearns spun on his heel and strode down the hall.

Pellinore surged to empty threshold, throwing out a beseeching hand. “No! Wait, John!”

Kearns shoulders twitched but he did not stop.

“Make me. I want no part of this, Warthrop.” He disappeared down the staircase, his echoing steps striking the ground like match-fire.

A living amalgamation of rage, disappointment and the fragile brittleness of some emotion he could not identify crumbled at the edges of Warthrop’s mind. It was monstrous and like all monstrous things, its fury fell upon the closest living thing.

Bolting down the stairs, the doctor launched himself at Kearns, tackling him to the vestibule floor. Kearns exploded into a fury of limbs and teeth, snarling out mangled words. Once or twice, Warthrop snatched his wrists but Kearns broke it in his animalistic ferocity. With a roar, he socked Warthrop in the jaw, sending him reeling.

Warthrop fell upon the bottom stair, the sharp wood stabbing his spine when he saw Kearns leap up and reach the door. With a cry Warthrop lashed out, catching Kearns around the legs.

“Get your filthy carcass off of me, you rotter!” yelled Kearns, ripping off Warthrop’s twisting hands as he tried to hold on.  

Maddened, Warthrop seized Kearns’ arms and yanked him back onto the ground. He threw himself upon Kearns, specks of blood drizzling the two thrashing bodies as Kearns’ elbowed Warthrop’s cheek, slicing it open and Warthrop slammed his palm into Kearns’ nose, trying to ward away the man’s frenzied attacks.

They rolled upon the ground, tearing up dust. Kearns kicked Warthrop away from him, sending him wheezing. Kearns pounced, pinning Warthrop to the ground with hands like bonds. Snarling, Kearns thrust his face into the doctor’s, harsh breaths seething past clenched teeth.

“Damn you, Pellinore. What the hell do you want from me?”

Pellinore said nothing, chest pounding sharply. Above him, he could hear Kearns’ answering heartbeat, thrashing wildly against his own.

“Don’t leave, John.”

Kearns’ grip tightened painfully around Pellinore’s wrists. He slammed them once against the ground. “Give me one damn good reason why.”

Pellinore turned his head, bathing the crook of his arm with his own harsh breaths.

“I need my assistant…” Pellinore fell silent, throat convulsing beneath his limp shirt-collar. “I need him, John.”

Kearns remained still, before releasing a long breath. He deflated, body going slack until his forehead fell upon Warthrop’s chest, as if it was too heavy to hold any longer.

Neither said anything more. Only the soft beats of their dwindling gasps filled the empty hall. Slowly Kearns rose, his hands sliding off the doctor’s as he sat back on his knees. Stray strands of hair clung helplessly to his face, and with an agitated gesture Kearns swept them away.

“Don’t make me regret it, Pellinore.”

Slowly Pellinore turned his head, regarding Kearns. For several beats, he remained looking up at his friend. Then he smiled, a frail thing beneath the raiment of poppies that marred his bruised and battered face.

“I cannot promise that, John, for I am steeped in it.”

Kearns watched Pellinore, grey into black, when he asked, “Do you deserve him?”

Pellinore breathed and lashes stammered against his tarnished cheeks. “I do not. But selfish man I am, I will not let him go.”

Kearns shattered into a fit of laughter, easing himself off Pellinore. With an ungraceful thump, he collapsed next to Pellinore and closed his eyes, saying nothing more as sunlight drifted lazily over the pair of them from the wide-open door.  

***

 

“When was the last time you eaten?” Kearns picked the clothes off the kitchen cabinetry and flung them into a basket. Pellinore stood idly by, arms filled with more, before dumping them on top of Kearns’.

“I’m not sure,” he said, rubbing his neck and looking around the messy kitchen. He plucked the lone sock and pair of trousers off the basement door and threw them into the basket as well.

“Well, then. That shall be the second thing on our list.”

“Second?” Pellinore turned around. “What is our priority then? The police station?”

Kearns kicked the basket towards Warthrop before leaning back against the counter and cocking an amused brow towards his friend.

“Isn’t it obvious? My dear Pellinore, you reek. As much as I would love to see Booby Morgan’s reaction to such a state of dishabille, we’ll have to forgo that bit of fun. I’ll be here, awaiting your return.” He paused, cocking his head thoughtfully. “Oh, and Pellinore? Do let me shave you. As much as I find your mountain man look quite…rustic, I refuse to be seen with you sporting the toilet paper beard of a prepubescent teen.”

Pellinore harrumphed and snagged a limp towel from the basket. “I am not bad at it,” he said testily. “I merely detest shaving.”

“And there lies the true philosophical conundrum that plagues all of us mortals. Do you hate it because you aren’t good at it or are you merely mediocre because you hate it?” Kearns wondered.

Pellinore marched straight out of the room and stomped up the steps. Several minutes later, the house creaked as water roiled through the old house’s piping with an elderly groan.

Kearns tipped his head back, eyes falling shut. He breathed in and allowed a sigh escape into the soft breeze that flowed from the open kitchen window behind him. He relaxed, feeling the throbbing aches of Warthrop’s punches dwindle away, laying just beneath the surface of his bruised skin.

Soon came a gurgle like a drain being pulled, and the rushing sound stopped altogether. Kearns cracked his eyes open. After a while, the stairs creaked softly as Pellinore padded down, damp hair clinging like willows to his face and neck. “Kearns, we have to amend your original plan and forgo—“

A towel smacked Warthrop in the face. He sputtered, tearing it off. “Bloody hell, Kearns! I expect this from John— “he flung the towel back— “not you!”

Kearns caught it deftly in one hand. He merely raised a brow before tossing it back, underhanded this time. It landed on Warthrop’s shoulder. “Whatever do you mean by that?”

Warthrop plucked the towel off with distaste. “You are usually more fiendish with your pranks. Throwing a towel lacks finesse.”

“Well, good. In that case,” drawled Kearns with a wicked smile, “you get to dry the dishes. Congratulations! How luck smiles down upon you!” Kearns laughed openly at Warthrop’s incredulous face, towel held in his hand as if it was a poisonous jellyfish. “Come now, don’t tell me you’ve forgotten how to do dishes, my dear Pellinore? Mm? I do remember quite avidly how well you tackled that debt in Seoul.”

“Don’t you dare bring that up,” snapped Warthrop, yanking down his damp t-shirt. “That infernal Chinese trader was the worst kind of ingrate to foot us with a bill he had no intention on paying! If James or I had to clean another wok, the Society would have no respite from the level of complaints from my end about their wild-goose chase of an expedition! _Sparganosis_ infestation, indeed!”

Kearns snorted, shirtsleeves bunched around his biceps as he started to scrub the dishes in the sink and pass them to Warthrop. “Does that same level of loathing explain why there is a lack of plates in your sink?”

Warthrop roughly placed the mug he was drying into the rack. “I found I had no need of them at the moment,” he replied, tone flat and unyielding. He snatched the half-soaped mug from Kearns’ hand and buffed it dry. Then he changed the topic.

“Before your foolish need to hurl linens at my person interrupted me, I was saying that we have absolutely no time to partake of a repast before heading to the police station. Robert’s shift ends in two hours and he’ll have access to whatever I require while he’s still at the station.” He fiddled with some silverware before chucking it into the drawer.

“I want this settled, Jack. I’ve already lost too much time. I’m not sure of the legal proceedings and what has happened on Emily’s end, but it has already been a month. I do not know if I am too late and the unknowing is as crushing as two stones upon my head.”

Kearns took the dried bowl from Pellinore’s hand and with a flick of the tap, filled with steaming water. “Well, then. Let’s get started, shall we? Sink’s empty and all that is needed your finest lather and your assistant’s chair. As with Lewis and Clark before their trek into the wildness, we shall fetch your little assistant-apprentice!” He chuckled. “Or at least the legal proceedings for one anyway. Everything was much more adventurous back then, wasn’t it? Less paperwork too.”

Warthrop fetched the stool from the basement while Kearns retrieved some lather and his razor. He directed Warthrop to sit upon the stool holding a warm towel on his cheeks while he sharpened his straight-edge on his leather strop. He tested it with his finger.

“Got this in Savannah—I do love a fine antique! It’s a switchblade kind as well, you see. Tucks neatly for emergencies, but how fortunate! You’re the first to test its proficiency.” He took the damp towel from Warthrop and hung it to dry.

Pellinore’s hands held tight to his knees, arms taut as Kearns took his chin in a delicate hold, and scrutinized his trimmed beard. Leaning back with a smile, Kearns scooped some soap and brushed it over Pellinore’s cheek. With quick efficient sweeps, the knife’s edge removed every bit of hair until Warthrop’s harsh cheekbones were clean and pink.

They were quiet as Kearns guided Pellinore’s chin to remove the difficult stubble there and then again to the other cheek. With only the neck left, he took a step back, tucking his arm about his torso and tapping his chin.

“Hmm, without that satyr’s look about you, I do believe your hair’s longer than mine! But it’s in the way, here.” Reaching into his back pocket, he removed a length of ribbon. “Tie your hair up for me so I can reach your neck without it draping everywhere.”

Pellinore took it and tied his hair atop his head but his gaze seemed faraway, looking for something that did not exist in that sunlit kitchen.

“Pellinore?”

Jerking out of his reverie, Pellinore cast a quick glance at Kearns. He grimaced and shook his head. “It is nothing. I was merely thinking, that’s all.”

“A dangerous pastime for some,” said Kearns, “Are you quite sure it’s nothing?”

Pellinore rubbed his bottom lip, the same distant look in his eyes as if he was _there_ rather than perched half-shaved in a t-shirt and jeans upon his assistant’s stool.

“What if I—we are wrong to continue through with this, Kearns?” he said, eyes fixed out the window. “He is a child. Children cannot be sure of what is best for them, even more so than most adults. Is that not why parents and guardians exist? To ensure through mutual experience the best possible upbringing for a child? How can we be sure that that is not the correct path for Will Henry, to have a good home with a parents and siblings?

“It was what my—what I did at his age and without that path laid for me, I would not have come under the tutelage of Von Helrung or become a monstrumologist. What if in revoking what I’ve already done, I take that chance away from him?” He carded his hand through his hair, loosening the strands.

“Pellinore. Look at me.”

Startled by the vehemence in his tone, Pellinore tipped his eyes upwards. His nose nearly bumped into Kearns, the man baring down on him from above.

“It is perhaps our greatest human fallacy to have wants that we constantly call into question. I’ve always wondered that—is that what makes us human rather than animal? A being that takes what it wants over and over without calling into question whether it’s right or wrong? We are God’s greatest creation, yet I have a remarkable feeling that we are his most flawed. For you, Pellinore, I have only one question: did your little protégé desire to leave your side or would he have continued to the very gates of hell with you?...Oh. Sorry. That was two questions.”

“It doesn’t matter—“

“Oh, yes it does, Pellinore. Is what you have done for the boy’s best interests? Or is it a plaster to ease your own wounds? Think carefully! Else I fear any extraordinary answer may cause me to accidentally christen my new razor upon your neck.”

With the blade upon his throat, Kearns deftly swiped off a patch of stubble. He finished in silence, Pellinore following his movements with his eyes. Kearns handed him a towel and he wiped his face clean. He handed it back to Kearns but the man remained in front of Pellinore, waiting.  

Pellinore’s hands tightened against his knees. “Jack, what if, in living with the Bates, he much rather remain in their custody? That he realizes they can provide what I cannot and it is more suitable for him?”

A hand touched lightly upon the back of his. “He wants to be by your side, Pellinore. That, I can assure you.” Kearns straightened. He turned away, wiping his razor clean before tucking away in his pocket. Then he took the towel from Pellinore, draping on the windowsill to dry. “I would take care when you see him. I could only fathom what it’s like to be sent away from what one considers home,” he murmured softly, looking at something beyond the window. Then he turned, grinning brightly.

Knocking shoulders against Pellinore—enough to send the contemplative look clean off his face—Kearns said amicably, “Snap to, my dear Pellinore! We have one assistant-apprentice to rescue and one Booby Morgan to entice!” He winked as Pellinore straightened himself off the stool, shooting Kearns a vicious scowl.

“Now, Pellinore, don’t give me that look. You know how much I relish running after your wayward assistants, even if they are none too appreciative about it!” Kearns laughed as he left the room. “I shall be upstairs unpacking if—or when you need me.”

With a final grin and wink over his shoulder, Kearns disappeared, leaving Pellinore alone as he re-tied his hair and brushed the tingly feeling from the back of his neck.

 

***

 

 


	24. Upon This Path I Will Tread

Warthrop gazed out of the half-open window, the steady ride rumbled beneath him in assurance that all would be well. A stray strand of hair escaped his ribbon and with an absentminded swipe, tucked it behind his ear. Upon his lap lay the weight of his paperwork bundled in his slim case, all of which he had feverishly wrapped up before leaving to visit Robert.

When he had emerged outside into the heated afternoon, he found Kearns already outside and in a fresh, but casual set of clothes. He had just finished topping off the air-pressure to the Daytona and was returning the foot-pump to the garage. With a wink, he hosed off his car, declaring it an ‘atrocious mockery of all vehicular masterpieces’.

Warthrop shifted slightly in his seat, stretching out his long legs in the tight space. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched Kearns steer effortlessly with one hand as the other rested upon the door. Kearns’ eyes remained on the road, his introspective silence sharing the space with Pellinore’s own evanescent thoughts.

He looked back out the window where the deeply wooded neighborhoods gave way to the idyllic New England landscape of neat row houses and tiny fenced-in yards, some with spangled banners hanging gaily. Downtown was the same as always, with the glass windows of the local restaurants and antique stores. The forest green streetlamps with their hanging baskets. The people who passed by in an unregistering blur. It was all so similar and so unchanged; one’s world might shatter, a mere tremulous whisper in the dark, lost vast everything and nothing that swallowed it whole. 

Kearns pulled into the police station, maneuvering neatly into a shaded parking space bordering the Federal-era county courthouse. The station itself was small, still housed in its original building with a glimmering plaque pinned to its front declaring, ‘ _Wolghemuth Station House -1863’_. Giant scrubby pines flanked the station and a thick blanket of pine straw covered the neat flowerbeds, each interrupted at intervals with short stubby shrubs.

A couple of policemen hung out under a sweeping pine, laughing amongst themselves as they chewed upon plastic cigarette filters. They eyed Kearns and Warthrop suspiciously before resuming their conversation and flicking their finished stogies into the splintered parking lot.

Without giving a second glance at either Kearns or the negligent policemen, Warthrop pulled open one of the entry doors. Neat lettering caught his eye and Warthrop paused, reading the typeface’s warning on the clear glass. Then he gave Kearns an assessing look over his shoulder.

Kearns laughed, walking past Warthrop through the twin metal detectors. “I’m clean, Pellinore. Really now, do you have that little faith in me?”

“I don’t like unnecessary surprises,” he said dryly as Kearns waved cheerfully at a security guard half-covered by an obnoxious fern potted next to the front door.

Leaving Kearns to poke around the front room, Warthrop asked for Officer Morgan at the front desk. An old lady in a magenta floral concoction complete with shoulder pads and lime green nails sat scribbling out answers to the day’s crossword and continued to do so, ignoring him completely.

Clenching his teeth, he asked again, but with a bit more volume and a bit more force. Seemingly surprised that someone was calling for her, the receptionist looked up from her newspaper, her stiff jacket rustling as she swiveled in her chair.

“Officer Morgan, you say?” She plucked off her beaded spectacles and squinted up at Warthrop, eyes frosted with pastels and mascara. “Why…I think I remember you, young man. Didn’t you come to pick up a package once?”

Warthrop adjusted his grip on his briefcase. “Yes, Marlene. I was here before, when I had to pick up James Henry’s child. Also when I had to answer for his remaining property. Now, can you see if Robert is in? This regards both him and the boy.”

“Oh, but you can’t be walking around like that, young man. You look right banged up, you do. Here, I have something to fix you right up.” She began to rummage around in a handbag big enough to hide a small child in. Or two. Her desk began resembling a roadside rummage sale as she removed everything from several cans of store-brand soda to another smaller pocketbook to a spare pair of shoes.

“I have no need. I am doing quite well, Marlene!”

“Nonsense, you are being too silly with your face all done in like that.”

“I am not being in the least bit facetious,” rejoined Warthrop hotly. “I am perfectly—“

“Here you go,” replied the old lady cheerfully, completely steamrolling Warthrop’s protests to wave a peppermint humbug and a rumpled old Band-Aid at him. “Take it now, for that cut on your face, dearie. Then it will heal up nicely!”

He stiffened. “I am a _doctor_ , Marlene,” he said with as much dignity as he could muster. He snatched the offering. “I have handled infinitely worse. Now if you please, will you call Robert?”

“Alrighty then, dearie. Why didn’t you say so?” wobbled Marlene, tucking a phone against her bony shoulder. “I’ll give him a call.” She then proceeded to press each and every button with such deliberate slowness as if she recalling an extremely complicated serial number.

Before he could clench his jaw any tighter, the phone connected. As she answered Robert on the other end, announcing that a _‘Mr Warthrop wishes to see him’_ , Kearns had returned, leaning on the countertop. He assessed the mess around Marlene and Warthrop’s vexed expression with his characteristic grin.

“Yes, I’ll let him know. You take care too, ok dearie? You have to bring your wife down for our company outings, you hear? Next week. Tell her I would very much like it if she brought that crème pie—oh! Sorry, yes, you’re right. Goodbye, dear.” Cradling the phone, she set it slowly back into its receiver with a little pat. “He says you can see him now. Though his shift is ending soon, so I hope it’s not anything too terrible.”

Warthrop replied with a sharp, “Thank you, Marlene,” and made to escape. But the old receptionist had spotted Kearns in an instant, letting out a soft exclamation not unlike a young girl finding something rather appealing.

“Oh, I haven’t seen you here before! Aren’t you a cute little thing! Why, you remind me of my youngest grandson with that big ol’ smile of yours!”

Warthrop spun around to see Kearns’ eyes widen slightly, smile faltering for all of a second. But before either could respond, Marlene had thrust a bulging wallet in Kearns’ face, the flowery pleather open to a crisp photo of a very chubby and very blonde baby, who was smiling wildly as he held his favorite stuffed toy.

“Now this is my grandbaby. You be nice, you hear? He just turned one last week and see how happy he is!” She tapped the photo with one pointy finger.

Warthrop stood over Kearns’ shoulder.  “I can certainly see the resemblance,” he remarked wryly. Kearns shot him a look. Warthrop smiled in return.

“Well, I must congratulate you on your grandson. He looks quite...elated,” said Kearns, taking a neat step back to avoid being hit with the thick wallet shaking in his face.  

Arm wobbling, Marlene took the wallet back with lopsided grin. “Yes, sir-ree! He’s my happiest grandbaby. Never had such a grand baby!” She chuckled. “Though sometimes I wonder what he’s so happy about all the time.”

“Marlene, we must be going,” interjected Warthrop, both hands gripping his briefcase as if he was trying to wring a snake.

“Oh, yes. Sorry to keep you!”

Both Kearns and Warthrop away walked swiftly, bodies easing once they were both safely behind the ‘ _Employees Only’_ door.

“Nothing will ever change my opinion that older ladies are the most persistent living organism on this planet,” muttered Kearns, thrusting a hand into his hair. Then he shot Warthrop a smile. “Except for you that is. And perhaps a roach.”

Warthrop glared. Then he halted abruptly and reached out, fingers brushing against Kearns’ sleeve. “We’re here.”

He knocked once against the worn door, its brass plate smudged with fingerprints. Upon hearing Robert’s answering call, Warthrop didn’t wait for the man to finish before entering.

“Good evening, Robert,” greeted Warthrop, striding across the small office.

“And a good evening to you too— “Robert’s mouth hung open before snapping closed in a disapproving scowl, half-covered by his bushy moustache. Kearns stood behind one of the two stuffed guest chairs, smirk upon his face and hands behind his back.

“Oh it’s _you_. Mr J. J. Schimdt or whatever new moniker you came up with this time.” Robert took off his glasses and rubbed both of his eyes hard before sticking the frames back on his face. Then straightening back into his desk chair he rocked slightly, both hands on the rests, looking properly like the aggrieved police chief he was.

“Jack Kearns, as always. Or Koury. You do seem partial to that one,” replied Kearns with delight, whole countenance brightening as if he found a long-lost favorite toy. “Though if you prefer something more exotic, you could call me _Khasiis_. Haven’t used that one for a while.”

Robert let out an egregious sigh. “You’re a spring collection of cognomen with all these blasted names of yours, Koury. I am overjoyed that God only made one of you, else the whole world will go to hell in a hand-basket.”

Kearns looked affronted. “Are you implying that I can’t do that on my own?” he asked with a slight pout. “How upsetting. I shall have to prove you otherwise, my good officer!” With that he gave Robert a gun-finger salute and a wink to boot.

Robert ran his hands down his weary face and sighed again. Then tossing all sense of professional dignity out his single open window, thrust his chin into his hand, leaning on it and shooting Warthrop with the foulest of glares as if to say, _What the hell have I done to you to deserve this menace again?_

Warthrop brushed past Kearns and stood rigidly in front of Robert’s desk, one hand tucked against his back and briefcase at his side. “I have come because require your services, Robert. I have filled out the paperwork regarding Will Henry and I noted there are some venues that I cannot acquire without your help. I also brought Dr Kearns as a witness for the notary official.” He gestured towards his friend.

Robert’s eyes bugged out ridiculously behind his owlish lenses. He stared up at Warthrop as if the man had professed a yearning desire to study dance. Or just vomited on his desk. Slowly he sat up straight, chair squeaking its own astonishment and continued to regard Warthrop as if he had gone mad.

Warthrop continued to stare down at Robert with utmost seriousness, mouth slowly tugging downwards into a frown as Robert said nothing to his statement. He snapped, “Are you going to help me or not, Robert? Time is of the essence and I would like to have custody before I find myself tackling hormones and his continued tutelage without it! God knows what would happen then.”

There was a moment of silence. Then Robert broke into raucous laughter, nearly upchucking himself from his chair when he leaned too far back in his hilarity.

Warthrop crossed his arms at the man’s unexpected behavior, glowering at the lack of decorum from the long-standing officer. He scrunched his face with further distaste when he caught Kearns chuckling behind him as well, merriment dancing in his grey eyes.

“I do not see what is funny,” said Warthrop, indignation drenching every word.

Robert held up a hand, coughing out his last bits of laughter. “Pellinore, I’ve known you since we were children and never once have I pegged you as the fathering type. But here you are, ready to adopt and still you are 100% Pellinore Warthrop, through and through!” Robert snorted as he wiped the tears from his eyes. “If you weren’t—well, now that would be the day I fear the world had gone to the dogs!”

Wiping his florid face with a tissue from his desk, Robert beamed up at Warthrop. “Let’s get on with the proceedings then, shall we?” Grinning stupidly, Morgan pulled open a large desk drawer and began placing several documents on the table. Affidavits, a list of New Jerusalem lawyers, and a few other forms that Warthrop had never seen before appeared on the desk. Some of them already had writing within its margins or upon its blank lines.

Suddenly Robert froze, shooting a suspicious glance between the two men. “Where’s Will Henry?” he asked, eyes narrowing.

Kearns cocked a brow at Warthrop. Warthrop remained standing stiffly, lips pressed firmly together. Neither said anything.

Morgan clapped a hand to his forehead. “Damn, he’s at school isn’t he? How could I forget? I was just on duty at the middle school yesterday…” Then with hum and a depreciative laugh, he returned to retrieving the rest of the paperwork, bending low to reach the bottom-most drawer. “Though it’s almost time for school to let out—are you going to pick him up?”

Kearns grinned wickedly. “In a manner of speaking.”

“Kearns…”

“What?” Kearns batted his eyes innocently.

“What do you mean, Koury?” barked Morgan, popping up so fast, he nearly beamed himself on the desk.

Kearns laughed and with a clap of his hands, replied, “Oh, well if you really must know. Pellinore decided just today to keep the boy, but he’s already been shipped off to some family in New York.”

“Pellinore!”

“Kearns!” Pellinore looked as though he wanted to bash Kearns over the head with something hard.

Kearns waved him off. “Oh hush now, Pellinore,” he said, “I know how you are about lying.”

“But he didn’t need to know that,” yelled Warthrop, flushing. “It wasn’t pertinent!”

“The devil’s in the details, they say. Or were you planning on lying by omission?” Kearns wagged a finger at Warthrop, which he promptly smacked out of the air. Kearns laughed playfully and still flushing, Warthrop spun around and ignored him.

Robert was staring daggers up at Warthrop from behind tightly clasped hands, as if preventing them from launching themselves at Warthrop’s neck. Or perhaps grabbing the nearest paperweight and hurling it. “You better tell me every single thing that has happened, Pellinore, or I swear I’m going to process each and every one of those complaints on your lawn that will have you reeling in fees like ticker tape on the 4th of July or so help me God.” Robert spoke in a rush, color rising high until he matched Warthrop, both as splotchy as a child’s drawing.

Warthrop’s lips tightened. All of a sudden, a deep rumbling growl tumbled into the room before dissolving into a pitiful whine. Robert’s eyes bulged as he stared up at Warthrop. Rosy color splashed upon his cheeks as he stared back.

Kearns stifled his laughter, clamping a hand on Warthrop’s shoulder. “My, my, and you said you weren’t hungry.” He laughed as Pellinore batted his hand away, color rising higher upon his face.

“Shut up, Kearns. My present condition is not in any way indicative of my previous lack of appetite,” muttered Warthrop to his shoes. Then he gave him a furtive glare.

“Shall we return at a later time then? When your lively digestive tract has been thoroughly appeased?”

“We have no choice, Jack! I refuse to dally a moment longer until I have done all I can upon this matter. I want this in the system starting now. Who knows what will happen further? I don’t even know how far along Emily is in her paperwork and I do not relish being caught unawares and forfeiting Will Henry, just for a little gastrointestinal nourishment. Like the Homefront of old, I shall tighten my belt and do everything within my power to get this rectified!”

Kearns clapped, dazzling grin in place. “Bravo! Truly moving speech. Shall we receive another?”

“May I remind you that you did return my revolver back to me, Kearns?”

“And may I remind you that you are in a police station, squabbling like two drunk teenagers?” interjected Robert, standing behind his desk and cleaning his glasses with a grimace. “Really, Pellinore? Threatening a man in front of an officer?”

“He is right, you know. Threatening a man while he is unarmed and innocent of any heinous crime. What a shame, Pellinore.”

Robert held up a hand. “Enough. We’ll never get anything done at this rate. My shift is ending and since there is nothing tacking us here besides the notary seal—which must be done after we have finished the paperwork, mind you—let us retrieve something to eat. You will inform me of the situation at hand, Pellinore and you— “he stabbed a finger in Kearns’ direction— “you will do everything within your power not to make me wish I’ve stayed in the Army.”

Kearns laughed at that. “An exceptional task!”

“So where shall we meet?” asked Robert, ignoring Kearns.

“New Jerusalem is woefully inadequate in its variety of fare.  However, I— “

Kearns whipped around to Pellinore. “I would prefer seafood.”

Pellinore stared. “The only decent establishment is clear on the opposite end of town, Jack,” he stated, frowning.

“My dear Pellinore, I have been trapped in the heart of Texas for several months. There might be yellow roses aplenty—not to mention more beige than I could stomach—but I haven’t had a decent meal of seafood in ages.”

Pellinore sighed and waved a hand. “We will meet you at Belle Isle then, Robert. I will have the paperwork I’ve already completed. Bring any and all pertinent information and forms that you know we will need in order to not only retrieve the full custody of Will Henry, but to fully adopt him under my name.”

Robert walked around his desk and held out his hand. “I will see you there then, Pellinore.” Warthrop took it and with a firm set to his lips, Robert looked him in the eye, gripping his hand strongly.

“Now, Pellinore, will you explain to me how you came to look like you just stepped out of a _Hooligan’s_ mosh pit?”

 

***

 

It was warm in New Jerusalem’s tiny seaside venues, as August breathed its last summer evening. The present locale was once its own diminutive township until it was incorporated into its ever-growing neighbor. Downtown might be the cultural and governmental heart of their little town, but it was the seaside that people flocked to, no matter what the season.

A dozen streetlamps twinkled like speared stars around the row of beach inns with its single restaurant nestled on the edge. In the distance, the ocean and sky met with a melding caress, a smattering of fishing boats marring its pristine edge. Above, a few stars and silhouettes of seabirds were tied like offerings in the deep umbra of inky blues and blacks. A breeze kicked up, rustling the few trees and moored boats that flanked the outdoor eating area of Belle Isle, adding to the hushed voices that blended harmoniously with the gentle lapping of the sea beneath them.

“So in summary your mentor, Dr von Helrung, and yourself approved of the boy coming to live with his niece, Emily Bates, who had volunteered to take in William from the get-go.”

At Warthrop’s nod, Robert leaned back, tufting up his short brown shards like a disheveled owl. “You have really fallen into the cowpat with this one, Warthrop. Unless this Mrs Bates totally relinquishes her claim on Will Henry, you might be in for a custody battle.”

“Why would there be such a thing, Robert? I was James’ confidante and singular provider to his family. What is there to contend?”

“Pellinore, you explicitly gave away your rights to William,” stated Robert, exasperated. “ _That_ is what they would want to contend with. I did tell you not to be so bloody ambivalent in regards to this matter.”

“I did what I thought best for the boy. They will see that.”

Robert huffed, only looking mildly convinced. “You would know them better than I would. Though given what you discussed with me about Dr von Helrung and his niece, I don’t think it’ll have to come to that. It seems everyone involved is only looking out for Will’s best interests. But one can ever truly know another individual.” He looked pointedly at Warthrop before taking a breadstick from the straw basket. He bit into it. “The only thing I could see being a potential issue is if she had some sort of complaint with you, yourself as the adopting guardian.”

Warthrop’s face was impassive. “I personally don’t see that will be an issue. There will be no trial before King Solomon or Moses before the altar. She will see the necessity of the arrangement since Will Henry wishes to return by my side.”

Robert raised a slight brow at the unwavering confidence of his friend’s words. He settled back into the iron-wrought chair and fished for his pipe.

“Of course,” he replied, filling the familiar bowl with a pinch of snuff and lighting it in his cupped hands. Its soft light joined the single candle’s glow before extinguishing into a plume of sweetly scented tobacco. He sighed, allowing the smoke to curl about the table before extracting a few sheaves of papers from a manila folder by his side.

“Now on your end, I’ll go over what is required from you in order to complete this process with the state,” he said, piping bobbing between his lips. Pushing the almost empty basket of breadsticks towards Kearns’ end of the small table, Robert fanned out his own papers in front of Pellinore. “I reviewed what you showed me and all that is left for those particular papers is notarize those with both Koury here and my guy. But I need these from you as well.” He tapped the topmost paper.

“There must be a letter of reference from your employer that states that you can provide adequately for Will Henry, which must be signed and sealed as well as proof of your own financial standing. House deed, bank account, stuff such as that.”

Warthrop took the paper and eyed it critically. “A letter of reference from my employer? I cannot write a letter to myself,” he said sardonically.

Robert’s face pinched up grievously. “Since you are self-employed, you can use Dr von Helrung. Not only was he the last man that employed you—or sporatically employs you, whatever the case—he can vouch for your well-being, given his knowledge of yourself and your field.”

“But how would he know of my financial situation currently? I could have squandered through my savings like a common suburbanite and none would be the wiser.”

“For the love of—that’s what the proof of your financial standing is for! The state will see both kinds of evidence and agree that you can financially provide for your household.” Reaching over, Robert shifted the papers and barreled on. “Here is what you can expect from a home case study—though that happen a bit later down the road…maybe a month after I file all your paperwork into the system. From what I saw last time I visited, there should be no problem. Although— “Robert cast an eye up at Pellinore— “I would do something about your lab.”

“I will not,” snapped Warthrop. “That is the most ludicrous thing I’ve heard all night. You of all people know that lab is my livelihood.”

“The person I know that does that sort of thing for our county will understand that it’s your workplace,” said Robert, in a placating yet thoroughly frustrated tone. “But since Will Henry is still a minor and it’s a functioning laboratory with chemicals and medical implements, she’ll understandably want it outfitted with a lock and a hazardous waste bin as well as all the proper protocol regarding a personal laboratory.”

“How is a bin plastered with a symbol any different than the one I have now?” barked Warthrop.

“How about it being the difference between passing or failing?”

“Fine,” said Warthrop, face souring at all the unnecessary and obsequious protocol he had not anticipated at having to do. “Is there anything else that I need to be forewarned about? Perhaps include my grade school reports while I’m at it?”

Kearns snorted.

“The only thing that is left of course is the criminal background check,” replied Robert, flicking his eyes at Kearns, who grinned. “I’ll run that myself, so there’s no need for anything on your end.”

“Oh, aren’t you fortunate, Pellinore. He’s giving you that for free,” said Kearns.

Warthrop took up the last bit of paperwork, stacked it crisply and tucked it into his case. “If that is all, Robert, I would like to inform von Helrung of this development as soon as possible. Do you have your cellular device on hand? Since Will Henry is currently in his niece’s care, I would like her to know to halt all proceedings on her end until we both can come to a satisfying conclusion. I feel more at ease in understanding that the process takes a considerable amount of time, but I shall rest easier once I know they have received word about my plans as well.”

Robert retrieved his cell phone and held it out to Warthrop, who took it with a look of disdain at the bell-like trinket that dangled from it. Warthrop punched a number and then holding the phone from his ear as if it was contagious, waited for it to pick up. When the warm Austrian burr greeted him on the other side, Warthrop got up and left the patio, stepping quickly down the stairs into the flickering nightfall.

Both of his companions sat idly, sometimes watching the only other table chat away good-naturedly, being several older couples enjoying a night on the bay or sometimes looking out at the water. But they always returned back to their friend as he paced along the seaside, outline quavering against the shimmering waterfront. Once or twice he froze then continued in his pacing, steps a little more hastened than before. Sometimes he turned beneath the single streetlamp, revealing a face set in abject concentration as he listened.

“Forgive me for asking,” said Robert after a while, tapping his bowl casually against the side of his chair. “But why are you helping Pellinore with this matter? It doesn’t’ seem very much your…ah, venue.”

Kearns slid an eye towards the man across the table, his countenance angled towards the sea. He tipped his head back. “What precisely would my venue be, mm?”

Robert grimaced, clearly not wanting to elaborate. “I’ve worked…alongside people like you. You seem like you work in a dangerous field.”

Kearns scoffed. “Well, I _am_ a doctor.”

“That’s not it,” retorted Robert. “A pediatrician is a doctor and those professions aren’t in the least bit dangerous.”

“I beg to differ, my dear officer. I find working with snappy-toothed toddlers highly precarious. All those diseases teeming in a cesspool of unwashed faces and unchanged nappies.”

“What I meant,” grit Robert, “is that your work seems to be of the kind that runs quite frequently with my own. _Counterparts,_ you might say.”

Kearns crossed his leg and considered the man’s answer. “Hmm, counterpart would be apt. After all, I am working with you at the moment.” He flashed a wolfish grin. “Why are _you_ helping him?” He leaned back in his chair, one arm spread upon the back of his chair and the other tapping his thigh lazily.

“I’ve known Pellinore since we were both kids,” Robert answered readily, tucking away his pipe. He sat back in his chair, fully addressing the man diagonally from him. “Although I’ll admit never saw him after elementary school once his father sent him away to some school in England. The next time I met him was when he returned once with James in tow, a whole decade later. So even though we had to get reacquainted all over again—by that time I finished my reservist work with the army and settled back here—it was the same Pellinore Warthrop I remembered, though a little more exacting and a little more cold than I could remember him being. When he finally moved back eight years ago, it was even more so. He was always driven by his work, forgoing outings with James and I when we had the fortune to meet up together.” Robert swirled the half-melted chunks of ice in his water. “I have always considered him my friend—an obtuse ass of a friend, mind you—but a friend nonetheless. I might call upon him for his expertise here or there, but this is the second time he has ever asked me for mine.”

Robert took a long sip of his ice water and Kearns returned to gazing out across the sea. “We are somewhat similar in that aspect,” he said, watching as Pellinore made his way up the grassy patch to the restaurant.

“You knew him when he was young too?” Robert asked, raising his brows. 

Kearns chuckled softly, fingers brushing the air in greeting as Warthrop returned to his seat. “Matters on what your definition of young is,” he answered cryptically. Then he cast his gaze up to Warthrop. “What did your dear old mentor say?”

With a sigh, Pellinore tamped the cell phone on Robert’s side of the table. “He was overjoyed, although he lectured me for quite some time. I’ve hadn’t had that level of grievance aimed at me ever since I’ve moved to New Jerusalem without informing him. He told me he’s going to call Emily tomorrow with the news.” He fiddled with his silverware, contemplating it under the rain of diffused light. “He told me Will Henry is doing well in New York.”

“I couldn’t imagine him not doing so,” replied Kearns, “Or for any child. New York is the land of opportunity, is it not?”

“I wasn’t expecting it, that is all,” said Warthrop stiffly. He moved his napkin to his lap as their waitress finally returned, bearing their dinner. “He has been going with John to the _Societal Center of Arts and Monstrumology_ and helping my mentor with some work in the Society’s library. Since it’s September, Emily’s been working with her husband to enroll him in school,” he added sourly, as if continuing Will Henry’s education was the last thing they should have been doing at all.

“It is something that wouldn’t do to dwell on,” replied Robert after taking a hearty bite of his crab cake. “There isn’t anything you can do at the moment and anyways, isn’t a good thing that Will Henry has been doing well while away?”

The look Warthrop sent towards Robert was so withering, Robert instantly dropped his gaze to his dinner and shoveled in enough food to prevent himself from saying anything else.

Kearns chuckled at Robert’s discomfiture, before tucking into his own meal. Using his knife, he squeezed a lemon over his fish and began to eat, which Robert watched with interest.

“I don’t know how you can eat fish with all those tiny bones,” said Robert curiously, watching Kearns skillfully pick the flesh clean. “Once I had a roasted guinea hen and I nearly had to call in sick from accidently digesting some of their bones. Most painful two days of my life by far but Sadako wouldn’t hear of it.” He frowned, stabbing his crab cake. “Said something about how two days in a lifetime is nothing compared to five of them every month for twenty years.”

Kearns snorted, taking a bite. “She’s absolutely right. One cannot compare without holding the experience themselves. As for the bones, if you know where to look, one can easily avoid them.” He twirled the fork in his fingers before stabbing it into the fish’s eye and plucking it out.

Robert made a face. “Sometimes I wonder why they even bother leaving the worst part of the fish on when they serve it whole.”

“But then it wouldn’t be a whole fish. And you are sadly misinformed if you think the head is the worst part. It is by far the most delicious.” Smiling mischievously, Kearns popped the eye into his mouth and chewed voraciously. Both Robert and Warthrop turned away in disgust.

“Urgh,” cried Robert, covering his face with a hand. “How can you even eat that?”

“You should be asking that to Pellinore,” replied Kearns, plucking out the other. “How one can eat raw oysters is beyond even my comprehension. Dripping the slimy buggers down one’s throat. And after it has been filtering out the entire filthy sea! To think he has the audacity to criticize my country’s food. We cook ours fully, thank you very much.”

Pellinore guzzled another oyster before quipping back, “Do you mean overcook? Or are you referring to your countrymen’s need to remove chewing as an essential part of the meal?”

“At least we have a cuisine, unless you consider deep-fat frying anything remotely edible your national pastime?”

Robert ate his meal, forgotten completely by the two men bickering amongst themselves.

“…a whole plate! One would think you are seeking its aphrodisiac effects!”

“…a foolhardy attempt, I assure you—they do not have that singular effect— “

The officer snorted into his potato. However stubborn and self-serving his friend was—which was quite often and to great extent—he was glad that in at least this, Dr Pellinore Warthrop was fully the man he believed he could be.

 

***

 

“Pellinore, _mein Freund,_ you are indebted to me after this! Ach, after I told Emily of your decision, she tells me, ‘ _Warthrop? How can he do such a thing after what he done to Will Henry?’_ Then she lectured me, her own uncle, for an hour! I’ve never heard such a outburst from her but then again, she is related to my dear Helena—God bless her soul! I think my ears are still ringing with her tirade!” Dr von Helrung chucked good-naturedly.

Warthrop ceased in his pacing, running his fingers over the paperwork scattered across his desk and into the halo of light transfixed upon it. “That is…unexpected,” muttered Warthrop.

“Unexpected! Pellinore! She’s been advocating for this ever since she heard of William’s plight. Unexpected, indeed! I thought you would have at least foreseen this! I do not envy you when you meet her tomorrow—it is tomorrow, yes?”

Warthrop braced one arm against the desk, his reflection wavering in the inky pitch of the small window. “Yes, yes the 11th. I’ve finished all the paperwork and I’ve given Robert the letter you sent as well. All that is left is seeing Emily…and Will Henry,” he finished.

“Though he no longer asks, it is not hard to see that he is thinking of you,” said von Helrung softly. “Why do you still refuse to tell him you are coming? Even now, when it is a sure thing? Do not allow him to continue to wallow in the dark.”

Stiffening, Warthrop clicked off his desk lamp, casting the room into darkness. “As I told you _, Meister_ Abram, it wouldn’t do to have such an expectation dwelling in him, only for me not to arrive. I will be there, in person tomorrow and that is all that matters.”

Von Helrung heaved a long-suffering sigh and Warthrop could almost imagine his mentor’s thick bushy brows, angled in worry and frustration, a sight as familiar with him as the very roundworms that had graced his operating table. “Stubborn as the day you showed up on my doorstep. Do watch out for my niece’s tongue? Her heart is fiery and her conviction strong. It wouldn’t do to have a conflagration erupt in my parlor!” He chuckled for a moment, before he continued voice low and thoughtful. “I shall be waiting for your train at noon, yes? To see you again will do both our hearts good. Until then, Pellinore. _Gute Nacht_.”

Pellinore returned the phone to the wall, eyes falling back to the papers upon the desk. He organized them, and then put them back into his briefcase. Then he took it and placed it in the hall, where two pieces of luggage stood side by side near the coatrack. The house had a soft hum to it, expectant and weighty, like charged air before a storm’s landfall. As Warthrop brushed his hand over the luggage, his thoughts registered a crackle of familiar voices emanating from the parlor behind him.

“Ah! Very good. Would you mind telling me whose brain I _did_ put in?”

“And you promise you won’t get mad?”

Warthrop shook his head and entered the parlor, stopping near the television set. On the screen, in black and white, a fuming scientist began throttling his assistant. Kearns chuckled to himself before casting an amused look up at Warthrop, who looked very much like a wayward boy that walked into the wrong room.

“May I help you, doctor?” said Kearns, grey eyes dancing merrily in the warmly lit parlor. He was sitting comfortably on the floor, leaning back against the sofa while an array of weapons gleamed in a semi-circle around him, polished so that every surface glistened. His prized 1893 Winchester was propped against one bent knee as Kearns took a cotton-tipped brush and began cleaning the barrel.

Warthrop looked away back towards the television, where now the scientist being chased around by a large monster, and gave a derisive snort. “Why are you watching this? It is an affront of everything to do with Mary Shelley and her masterpiece.”

“I quite enjoy it,” remarked Kearns, checking the swab of dirty cotton. “None of that existential doom and gloom of the original. Why, it even has a happy ending for everyone! How could one not like that?” Warthrop snorted again and sat near Kearns but well away from his arsenal. Something caught his eye and he leaned over, picking it up.

“You polished my revolver?”

“Of course. I was polishing the rest of my collection, so I only saw fit to include your singular one.” Kearns laid down the brush, took a tin of beeswax and began buffing the rich cherrywood of his Winchester.

Warthrop watched him for a while, before asking, “Were you hunting again in Texas?”

Kearns flipped over the rifle. “Always, my dear Pellinore.”

“Was it the same job as before?”

Kearns flicked his eyes to Warthrop. “You mean with the boy?”

He nodded.

“That case is done and closed. Only your research is all that remains. As for the circumstances that precipitated it, you and I both know that there will always be more. Same as yours. Monsters are monsters, no matter how well they hide.”

Warthrop exhaled and hugged his knees. He looked down at the revolver dangling from his fingers. On the screen, Frankenstein’s monster wailed as a blind man poured hot soup on his lap.

With a snap of the barrel and a sharp _click!_ Kearns righted his Winchester and laid it carefully on the ground. Then with an exaggerated yawn and a cat-like stretch, he slumped further down onto the floor. With hands upon his belly and shirt riding halfway up his stomach, Kearns resembled a roguish renegade, finding respite where he found it.

“Are you ready to retrieve your long-lost lamb?” he asked, tapping his fingers against each other, brow furrowed in concentration.

The revolver swayed to and fro, brushing the air over the doctor’s feet. “Everything’s been packed. And von Helrung’s been informed of our arrival tomorrow.” His eyes flicked towards Kearns. Though his eyes were closed, an answering smile flitted upon his lips.

“You know, I’ve never met your mentor before,” he mused. “Do I have to worry about him chasing me out of house and home too?”

Warthrop shot Kearns a glower. “I never could understand why you and James had it out for each other like modern day Burr and Hamilton.”

Kearns peered up at Warthrop though his lashes. “Come now. Isn’t that a little melodramatic? I, for one, never shot your assistant, Pellinore. He was much too hammy for me since the day he bumbled into my encampment. Were you the one that taught him to gesticulate as if a swarm of midges fell upon his head?”

Warthrop, though his face soured, allowed a small smile to escape. “No, that was all James.” Then his voice quieted, gaze returning to the revolver in his hands. “It was James to the very end.”

Kearns watched Warthrop pass the gun from one hand to the other, the lamplight glinting off its polished façade. Then with a careful reverence, he laid it between them.

The television program came and went, another taking its place, but its presence had long passed into the soft drone of background nothingness. They remained there upon the floor, Kearns and Warthrop and the halo of weapons glinting with the golden light. Neither desired to return to their own beds, tucked away from the other, tucked away from the overflow of unshed thoughts that filled the room like rainfall.

And they waited, heads crowned in a Gethsemane nightfall.

 

***


	25. Catalyst

The night filtered in through the open window, that particular shade of night unadorned with stars, the last bulwark before the oncoming dawn. It was weightless, a calm sea overturned upon the earth. And like the sea, it murmured softly, an indecipherable incantation to anything awake when all else remained asleep.

Kearns shook his head, casting thoughts like unwelcome seeds. He shifted until he sat on the edge of his bed, bare feet cool upon the lone rug beneath him. A chill rose from the window. He turned towards it, allowing the boreal air to bathe his damp skin, uncaring that it lay claim to his exposed limbs.

Something had awakened him, taking hold of his gut in its jaws and refused to let go. It was deep and unsettling, taken root beneath all sense and upturning it with the ferocity of an unyielding tree. As if in answer, a gust broke free, a rough caress atop the shuddering trees.

Kearns shivered. Silently, he made his way across the small room, sure steps piercing the wreckage of light from the window. Finding what he needed in the dark, he shrugged off his nightclothes and draped them cleanly over the bedframe. With deft hands, Kearns dressed himself with a pair of fitted jeans and shirtsleeves. He pulled on a pair of socks and with a quick swipe under his pillow, had all he needed.

The eldritch shadows hummed around him as he descended the stairs, gaze bewitched to the single wound of light cast upon the vestibule floor. Finding his boots, Kearns strapped them on, tasting the metallic snap of steel as he held his knife in his teeth. The double snap of the buckles fled through the silent household, but the night snatched it and suffocated the offending noise.

Kearns patted his pocket, rolled his shoulders with a shuddering pop and casually made his way to the back door. With a soft click of the house behind him and the delicate crunch of discarded coppice beneath his feet, he vanished.

 

***

 

Warthrop stood at the window, the veil of light shrouding his still figure in a carmine gauze. Below, everything quavered, something teeming within their alkaline branches, ready to be set alight at the barest touch. Warthrop tore his gaze away, hiding his agitation in the comfort of darkness and the sure steps of his pacing.

The few times he lifted his gaze back to the window, only his haggard reflection answered back, the hollowed sockets blind and unseeing. Dragging a hand through his short curls, Warthrop collapsed into Will Henry’s rocking chair.

The same fluttering crashed frantically within, bashing and rending itself to pieces as it sought to escape. He had done everything he could do. All that remained was the waiting, the unending refrain as disquieting as the church toll that called softly into the night.

A breeze cut across the lawn, shattering the stillness with its keening. It ran along the sealed window and finding no passage, skittered back into the wilderness.

As much as the knowledge stuck and splintered under his skin, he knew that Will Henry was safe in the Bates’ brownstone and within reach of his mentor if needed. There was nothing to prevent him from arriving at their doorstep and finding his assistant as he remembered, rebellious hair and eyes so remarkably like his father’s.

He had made grossest miscalculation in regards to the boy. Like James before him, Will Henry belonged at his side. There was no other acceptable course.

Throughout his decade of meticulous and diligent work, others had sought to study under his admirable intellect and expansive knowledge on all things monstrumological. But he always refused, having no patience for their ingratiating praises nor their fickle desire to have his name grace their barren resumes. He had no need of lackadaisical assistants or students whose only lofty goal was to collect as many prominent names to themselves as a boy scout with his badges.

James was all he ever needed. James always remained, despite everyone reproving his choice in the matter—even Mary! With the birth of Will Henry, James still did not waver, only taking off for a few months to care for his newborn son before taking his rightful place next to him. James, who never had any sort of training or schooling in the realm of monstrumology, yet earned his worth repeatedly with his steadfast loyalty and dedication. No one else understood the sacrifice the science demanded nor the worth of hours of drudgery and toil to receive a new scintilla of knowledge, as rare and as beautiful as the jewel awash in the gem miner’s pan.

Pellinore needed his assistant with an ache that would not allow him the succor of sleep. The boy did not have any particular talent for the field, no, but he was young—no more the age he had been when he himself had entered the monstrumological field and more than half as young as James had been. James had given him time—that valuable commodity to which there is no replacement—and Pellinore would repay that in turn.

He looked back to the window. It was clear, the pitch-stained branches shivering against a dying grey. The morning came, tucking away the languishing night and gathering it in a field of color.

Rubbing the back of his neck, Warthrop eased out of the chair, the wood whispering quietly behind as he walked to the small master bathroom. Quickly making use of the facilities and giving his damp hair another round with the towel, Warthrop went to his dresser and shucked off his sleepwear, tossing it in the general vicinity of his bed. Chilled, he tossed on an undershirt and wiggled into a comfortable pair of sleek trousers. A crisp black shirtsleeve came on next. The sun bathed his shoulder in a blushing hue as he tucked it into his pants, donned a belt and adjusted his cuffs.

As he opened the door, he doubled back, checking the nightstand. Finding what he was looking for on the ground by his bed, he tucked the slip of paper in his back pocket and left. Passing through the hall, Warthrop noticed Kearns’ door was ajar. He descended the stairs and called for his friend, but Kearns did not answer.

Frowning, Warthrop checked the clock on the microwave. 6:35. After a quick glance around the kitchen, he popped a mug of water in, drumming the counter while the dirty glass plate revolved obscenely slow inside. Before the water had even boiled, Warthrop snatched the mug out and dunked a tea bag in with some sugar. The tapping resumed as the tea struggled to brew properly under Warthrop’s hawkish glare. It puttered to a watery brown and unable to be patient any longer, Warthrop gulped it down.

“Urgh,” he muttered, grimacing. He flung the lukewarm water into the sink. 6:38. He tried again. While the microwave heated his water, Warthrop gave into his impatience, stomping out the kitchen. He poked himself into every room—including the tiny restroom beneath the stairs—looking for his waylaid friend.

“I can assure you,” purred a voice behind him, “that you certainly will not find me in there without the door being closed and locked.”

Warthrop gave an involuntary cry, nearly beaming Kearns in the face as he spun around in the doorway. “Kearns! Where have you been? It’s nearly seven!”

Kearns looked taken aback. Then he smirked. “Is it really?”

“Yes!”

Kearns removed an embellished pocket watch from his back pocket and flipped it open. “Why so it is!" he exclaimed, looking genuinely surprised. He snapped it shut. “Do tell me there is enough time for breakfast.”

Warthrop scowled and brushed past Kearns into the kitchen. “We need to leave at eight, Kearns,” he called sternly. “I want to be there a half-hour early before the scheduled wait time. If you insist, make yourself something, but we are leaving at that time.” Ripping open another teabag, Warthrop plunked it into his mug and bobbed it roughly.

Kearns wandered to the sink with a dramatic sigh as he removed a skillet from the drying rack. “If only there was an assistant-apprentice around here!” he moaned, turning on the gas. He looked over at Warthrop.

Warthrop would have none of it. He crossed his arms and eyed Kearns back.

Kearns shook his head and removed the remnants of some sourdough bread and a carton of eggs. “Really, Pellinore? Not even a cup of tea? Are you going to leave me languishing over here? Not even a smidgeon of caffeine?”

Warthrop raised a brow. “So says the man who refuses to take dictation for me.”

“Touché!” exclaimed Kearns, arms open as if he just delivered an applause-worthy line. “Would you care for some eggs-in-a-hole then? I shall make sure not to burn them.”

“Somehow, I don’t feel as if that would be the case at all,” grumbled Warthrop, chucking his pinched tea bag into the bin. He gulped it down before plunking the mug onto the counter. “I shall be loading the Daytona in the meanwhile.”

Kearns shooed Warthrop away in answer, tossing eggshells into the garbage as soon as he quit the space.  

After loading the hatchback with their luggage, Warthrop returned to Kearns digging fully into his breakfast, his own spot with the same and a renewed cup of tea. He took a swig of it before taking his seat opposite Kearns.

“With all the tea you fill yourself up with, it’s a marvel you aren’t habitually in the loo,” replied Kearns, taking a sip of his own tea.

“Seeing as you are consuming the very same beverage, Kearns, isn’t it a little juvenile to be discussing such things over breakfast?”

“Oh, what would be a more appropriate topic? Your roundworms? The distressed intestinal domain they inhabit? Or perhaps the goings-on of the criminal class—they do bring up some more interesting topics.”

Warthrop picked at his egg. “I would prefer nothing. I need time to think, Jack. Please give me that.”

Kearns peered at Warthrop over his mug. He drank and laid the mug back, before finishing the rest of his breakfast. Then he got up, pausing at Warthrop’s side. “I shall be cleaning up. I will meet you outside at eight.”

Warthrop nodded his understanding. His own egg and toast were barely touched. As soon as the sound of Kearns died away, Warthrop got up too, scraping his plate and sticking both his and Kearns’ in the sink. He left, finishing the rest of his morning adulations and taming down his contestable curls. After double-checking his briefcase and pockets and donning his suit jacket and dress shoes, he went outside, locking the door behind him.

As he promised, Kearns was leaning against the trunk of the Daytona, smirking at a young couple who hurried away with their pudgy dog, nearly dragging the poor beast in their haste. Warthrop shooed Kearns away and secured the briefcase between his and Kearns’ luggage. He slammed the hatch shut.

Turning towards the passenger side, he combed his fingers through his hair and caught Kearns’ cursory glance in his direction. He paused, raising a brow. “What is it?”

“I didn’t know your hair could be forced to lay down. Untamable as Charybdis, one once remarked.” Kearns pulled open the driver’s door and folded himself inside.  

Warthrop grunted, following suit. “Yes, well. If there is anything that can sway a dispute to one’s point of view, it is the very act of donning the appropriate façade.” He straightened his tie. “And I find this pretense can do quite the trick.”

“And to think, this is my first time seeing it in full force,” laughed Kearns, as Warthrop secured his seatbelt and settled in. “Does that mean you have no need for fronts in my presence?” A teasing grin grazed his lips.

Warthrop’s brow furrowed and he hummed noncommittedly. He said nothing more as Kearns backed out of the driveway and made his way downtown.

Though Warthrop kept sweeping it away like some persistent bauble cluttering his desk, the very presence of Kearns accompanying him on this particular trip was perplexing him like some alien species inhabiting a nonnative land.  This was no hunt, no expedition full of brigands or rare exotica, or even a stake-out in some abysmal dive with the promise of danger and adrenaline-rich possibilities.  It was quite simply put, the most mundane, the most _domestic_ of errands that Warthrop could have ever attributed to his own person—the very action an antithesis of who he was. But for Kearns…

Warthrop pulled at his lip. He closed his eyes, leant back and breathed a sigh. He allowed his eyes to drift back open and in a passing whimsy, wondered what James would have thought. But whimsy it was, and Warthrop immediately discarded it, having no time for immature and sentimental foolishness.

They arrived at the small downtown station with an hour to spare, pulling into the sparsely populated parking lot. Rose-gold trees flickered in the radiant morning and leaves skittered around their feet as they made their way to the atrium, warmed from the crystal clear skylights.

Warthrop picked up his tickets from an overly chipper young clerk, her chestnut hair secured behind her ear with several flowery pins. He muttered his thanks and wheeled his luggage to the outside platform, seating himself next to Kearns who was already lounging contentedly on the nearest bench.

The brick lined platforms radiated a subtle balminess as people waited with reading material or sleepy-eyed children. Newspapers twitched. Soft conversation ebbed. Some people sat back with breakfast and coffee and the overhead clock slowly wiled away the minutes. Both Warthrop and Kearns were in no hurry to fill the day with inane and idle chatter and merely observed the passers-by.

At gentle chime of thirty minutes past eight, some people glanced down the tracks for their scheduled train. Seeing none, they mumbled and resumed their tasks. Fifteen minutes later, the conversation dashed towards active grumbling as they packed away their things in anticipation of their ride. But nine o’clock came and went in a solemn toll with no sign of their train.

It wasn’t unusual for transportation to be a little late, so Warthrop bit back his frustration and fixed his gaze straight-ahead, listening for the soft rumble of the tracks.

A quarter of an hour passed with no sign of either the north-bound or south-bound train.

People waiting upon the platform whispered furtively to themselves, checking either their watch or their cell phones for the time and shifting agitatedly upon their feet. The trains might never be on time but they were never so incredibly tardy. Even Kearns had straightened in his seat and flicked out his own pocket watch, frowning at the display.

Nine-thirty. He snapped it closed. He considered the indoor waiting area behind them, where several families and acquaintances were talking to each other or on their cell phone.

Warthrop followed Kearns’ lead, watching as some people hung up their phone and shrugged, resuming their book or newspaper. Others had their hands full entertaining their children, exasperated that their trains were more than an hour late. But not only that, according to the electronic display, there were supposed to be another train past due. Warthrop’s frown tugged further.

Then they saw it, a look of abject terror infecting a man as he talked rapidly on his phone. Startling his companions, he shot out of his seat and bolted out the door. With the shock of it, his fellows turned to each other, instantly speculating what had transpired.

The infection spread. Behind the counter, the young attendant had just answered her work phone. Every inch of color in her rosy face died until she was corpse-white. She collapsed into her chair. Her mouth floundered, a grotesque cherry red.

Something poisonous began leaking into Warthrop’s bones, alighting every nerve ending. He found himself ripping open the glass door, mind a swarm of incomprehensive thoughts and conjectures. At the counter the woman was huddled over her phone, speaking brokenly. Her eyes darted madly, refusing to stop.

“Yes—yes I understand, can I call—ok, yes. I—can you see if they are alright? Please? I-I…yes, thank you.” She swiped harshly at her eyes. Hung up the phone. She turned and immediately encountered Warthrop, eyes a blazing pit of hellfire.

Leaning over the counter, hands corded in sinew and bone from the force of his control, he demanded, “What is going on?”

The girl’s throat worked, mouth opening and then falling shut. Her fingers twisted, strangling.

“What is it?” barked Warthrop harshly, losing all patience with the stricken girl. “Stop sniveling and explain! What is going on with the trains?”

Fat drops fell from her eyes. She wrung her hands. “It’s New York City. It’s been attacked,” she said, voice cracking. “It’s a state of emergency. So they halted all transportation in and out of New York.”

Everything slammed closed within Warthrop. “Attacked? What do you mean it’s been attacked? How in the hell can someone attack New York?!” His voice became serrated, cutting into the girl as she cowered.

“It was airplanes. T-Two planes crashed into the World Trade Centers—“

Flinging himself off of the counter, Warthrop launched himself away, colliding into Kearns who had been standing silently behind him.

“Your cell phone! Kearns, I need your—“

Kearns placed it in Warthrop’s outstretched hand. All around, people were starting to hear the news, the once-composed whispers transmuting into a surge of anxiety and fear throughout the entire station.

The phone didn’t ring. Instead, it connected immediately.

_“The person you are trying to reach is not avail—“_

Warthrop snapped the phone shut. The dull roar of everyone’s animalistic fright scrambled into static.

“It didn’t connect, Jack,” he replied flatly, hand clenching tight around the chipped phone. “What does it mean? He never shuts off his cellular device—as President of the Society, he cannot! The Society is located in Mid-Manhattan, but that is nowhere near the World Trade Center. There is no conceivable instance that…” Warthrop whirred around, the very air crackling like livewire. “Damn it, Kearns! I need more information!”

“Could you call someone else?”

“I don’t have their phone numbers on me. We will need to retrieve them from James’ address book at the house.” He smacked the phone into Kearns’ hand. A fever-pitch surged throughout his entire body. “I need information _now_. I refuse to blind myself with ignorance and misinformation. I will get to the bottom of this!”

A relentless call to action took hold as he pushed Kearns out of the way, hot and seething, chewing every ounce of the doctor to pieces. Like forged steel plunged in water, his resolve galvanized, slicing through the crowd of rabbit-eyes and rabbit-hearts. Panicked people removed themselves from Warthrop’s periphery, desperately trying to call loved ones and eyeing Warthrop like a man on the warpath.

He climbed atop a recently vacated seat and with a snarl, switched on the overhead television. Grey static erupted on the screen. Warthrop stabbed the channel button, flicking between various screens of jeering static. Then it exploded into color.

_“—identified as a Boeing 767 departing from Boston at 7:59 AM this morning en-route to Los Angles hit the North Tower at 8:46 this morning—“_

The room froze, their very breaths suspended on tethers as a grey tower erupted into flames. In that instant, everything slowed to cold, untranslatable disbelief and fear. Words no longer registered, every syllable a foreign tongue buzzing maddeningly in their ears like flies.

Some alighted. _“…Pentagon has just been attacked---9:37 AM—the South Tower—all units called in—all entry points closed— “_

Some died. Drowned amongst the accompanying screams, sirens and cries—churning, churning into a noxious cacophony of incoherency.

Even the children, crying and running around their parent’s legs had fallen quiet, infected with the shock and horror that seized their parents. Ignorant of what held them, of what was happening far beyond their control. 

They all stood in silence, watching the towers as they fell, the tragedy all at once there and not there, real and false. The images replicated in pixels, relaying the knowledge that as they stood there, this was happening not too far away—a fact that ossified every human thought. It was madman’s prank, the delusion of some second-rate action movie somehow being broadcast as breaking news. Because as for long as they all lived, such things were the actions of other worlds—causalities upon foreign soil not their own. To imagine— _to acknowledge otherwise!_ meant something they could— _did_ not want to accept.

It cut to a replay. Nondescript forms of people leapt to their deaths, rather than be taken with the behemoth beneath them. They twisted and turned like God’s own abandoned creations, until even the unfeeling camera’s eye could not bear it any longer. It switched back to the impassive reporter’s mask, fastened in place with reality.

The doctor stood, hands open at his sides, gaze tipped upwards. His countenance, a stark woodcut against linen white walls, sat stiff and unyielding, lips drawn over teeth and bone. Warthrop watched like an actor on the sidelines, one who knew all the lines to this particular play but witnessed something unexpected.

Whatever passed along his features vanished, tucked away into the locked recesses of his mind, like a book snapped closed after a curious peek inside. It fell to that demand for absolute control that lies beyond one’s grasp, with an urgency that sped through him with the gale force of a landfall hurricane.

He leapt off the chair. Spinning on his heel, Warthrop bound over to the countertop, bearing down on the girl behind it.

“Who was on the phone? I need to speak with them immediately,” he commanded, the iron-wrought authority in his voice seizing her attention as if he visibly shook her with his own hands.

“It was my boss,” she said, voice quavering. “My-my boyfriend works on Wall Street and I don’t—“

“Can I have your phone and his number?” interrupted Warthrop, thrusting his hand impatiently over the counter.

“Oh, okay. Here.” She put the phone on the counter and scribbled a number onto a schedule pamphlet.

He snatched it before she could hand it over. Warthrop punched in the number and answered, voice curt and sharp. He nodded, flicked his fingers impatiently at the air, brows furrowing as he listened with growing irritation. Then with brusque thanks, he tossed the phone on the counter. He marched past the counter, grabbed his luggage and left.

With an apologetic quirk to his lips towards the attendant, Kearns shrugged on his pack and followed.

“And where are we headed off to?” he asked, long strides catching up to Warthrop’s.

“Back home. Afterwards, New York.”

Kearns’ grin exploded on his face. “Goodness, it’s been several years since we’ve been together, Pellinore. Will this be another trip through the Pine Barrens?”

Warthrop threw his luggage into the trunk. “Not in the least. I will be driving this time. And Kearns? No weapons. I have no time for your sorry carcass if the NYPD or whomever is patrolling those wretched streets pulls you over.”

“Never fear,” replied Kearns, waving away Warthrop’s threat like a particularly noisome fly. “New York is an alchemist’s paradise. One can enter with nothing and leave with absolutely everything.” His smile was positively ghoulish.

Warthrop jerked open the driver’s door, catching the keys Kearns tossed over. “That is precisely where my reservations lie.”

 

***

 

Upon arriving back home, Warthrop threw open the door and kicked off his dress shoes into a pile. His silver tie flew over the banister along with his suit jacket. He shoved his luggage into a corner and ducked into the study, snatching thin planners and notebooks from his desk drawers. He flipped through them, tossed them and rummaged for more. With a shout, he found the cheap notebook that James kept for business connections.

Warthrop went through every phone number James had recorded who resided in New York. Dr Abram’s landline. Ms Cooper and Dr Penham. Several Societal directory calls. He even called Abram’s office, uncaring if he was gifted with thinly veiled insults from his amiable Command of Finances. But it was to no avail.

Bounding back into the hall, he yanked open the broom closet, leaned in, chucked the cleaning supplies aside and dragged out a nearly full camping bag and a pair of sturdy waffle-stompers. He pulled open the Velcro covering of the bag and rummaged around for a few seconds before dragging both to the stairs. Snapping open his briefcase, he pulled out his paperwork and quickly shoveled them inside the bag, careful enough not to bend the documents. He flopped down on the landing, yanked on his boots, doubled knotted them tightly and sprang back to his feet.

“Kearns, have you packed the provisions?” shouted Warthrop, flinging on his pack.

Kearns marched past Warthrop to the front stoop. He tossed a casual glance over his shoulder, watching Warthrop struggle to adjust the straps. “Of course.”

Warthrop snatched his duster from the coat rack, slammed the door shut, locked it and jogged down the steps to the Daytona. After tossing his bag into the trunk, they sped off towards Interstate 95. Save for the rapid thrum of the road, they drove in companionable, yet terse silence, listening intently to the drone of news from the radio like two soldiers trapped in a foxhole.

As the news started to repeat itself, providing no more original investigation or answers to the terrorist attacks or rescue efforts, Warthrop turned the volume down until it trickled away into a soft hum. Kearns was watching the landscape pass by, chewing thoughtfully on a granola bar. Whether by unspoken design or they simply had no need, they did not converse on the day’s events.

After a while Kearns spoke up, tone one of casual curiosity. “Whatever became of your roundworms?” he asked, crumbling the wrapper in his hands. “You never did elaborate.”

Warthrop scowled and leaned against the door, one hand plucking his lip. Though he was still looking out the window, he saw the inquisitive flick of his friend’s eye upon him. He breathed deep and released an irritated sigh.

“It’s finished. And no longer a fit discovery for the public eye.” He scoffed, brushing his fingers against the doorframe. “One of the greatest finds of my entire career and it’ll be sealed away in the bureaucratic catacombs of the government. I toil in darkness and in the domain men fear to tread, only for my results to be stowed away like Rochester’s mad wife! Unless of course they find a cure. _That_ discovery will garner the accolades my work apparently does not deserve.”

Kearns brushed the crumbs off his hands. “They paid well for your time, did they not?”

“I have no desire for such a paltry thing! What use is money? Paper trinkets compared to having one’s name known the world over,” grumbled Warthrop, shifting in his seat. “It cannot buy fame or prestige one develops through hard work and intelligence!”

“Well, it does fund further research.”

“Yes, yes, I suppose.” Warthrop gestured distractedly. “But that is not the point! Why should my work be reduced to the dustbin of monstrumology and science as a whole? Hidden and buried until I am six feet under and nothing but the mere rot in sea of names? Where my legacy lies, others will fertilize their own with the remains of my forgotten research!” He huffed. Then shoved his open hand at Kearns, fingers gesturing to the plastic bag in his lap.

Kearns plopped a cereal bar in his palm. “Perhaps not. Rimbaud and Kafka thought similarly. Now many celebrate their works.”

“That is true,” allowed Warthrop, tearing open the wrapper with his teeth. “Although they specifically told their most trusted friend not to share, what was in their opinion, bits of conceited drivel and horribly flourished platitudes. And yet they did. Sounds more like betrayal to me. Not to mention, all that happened whilst they were dead.”

Kearns shrugged. “They do say one finds their greatest happiness once one is dead.”

Warthrop pursed his lips, eyes still fixed ahead on the road. “Were you aware of this, Kearns?”

“Aware of what?”

“That they had no intention in allowing publication of these findings.”

“Should I’ve been aware?”

Warthrop’s eyes narrowed. “You were the one that received the specimens.”

“The specimens and nothing more. No explanation save the simple instruction to deliver them into your hands.”

“You could have asked them to make their intentions clear,” criticized Warthrop.

“Didn’t cross my mind.” Kearns bent over, stretching his legs and back before arching back into the cramped seating. “But I think the real question is would that knowledge have prevented you otherwise? Would you have allowed such a specimen to escape your grasp despite that proviso?” Kearns leaned against the door, hooded eyes assessing the rigid profile of the doctor. “How it would have galled you to your very core to allow some greenback to come to an unacceptable conclusion on the very research you started. To share in on what is entirely yours.”

“That is enough, Jack.” Warthrop’s lips pulled, not saying anything further.

They fled further down the interstate, the once scattered highway now filling with communal traffic from the close-knit cityscapes. Instead of soft greenery, it gave way to the modern concrete jungle with small multi-stories springing up like broken bones with the occasional march of well-kept suburban homes.

Kearns rubbed his nascent moustache with his forefinger and thumb, gaze fixed down the expanse of worn grey highway. The procession of trees flickered in the afternoon, obscuring buildings and vehicles alike. Kearns’ eyes narrowed slightly, focused intently on the waning copse of trees. His fingers paused upon his lips.

“Turn into the next exit.”

Warthrop shot his friend a look. “Why? We are still in Connecticut,” he stated, frowning. “Another hour and we will be in New York.”  

“More like in the midst of government-controlled traffic. They just reported that all the tunnels have been closed off and the bridges are at a stand-still. The National Guard is controlling all traffic within and outside of New York.”

Warthrop waved his reasoning aside. “They are letting in emergency vehicles.”

“And this is?”

“Well, of course. Two doctors, seeking entry to what is considered an emergency situation? They will most certainly let me through.”

Kearns snorted. “Forgive me, Pellinore, but that is completely far-reaching as to be ludicrous. Complete balderdash. If they don’t take one glance at this particular specimen of fine transportation and turn us away on the spot, then they will shove us in with all the other patrons with ‘urgent business’ or temporary doctorates.”

“Why would they do that? If the National Guard can’t see past their nose to who is a real doctor, then the state of our defense is in a sorry state indeed.”

Kearns shrugged. “It might be easier to take the train,” he said matter-of-factly.

“The trains were not in service, or have you forgotten that little fact?” bit out Warthrop, losing patience.

“I haven’t. But I did also see one travel past, not mere moments ago,” replied Kearns, pointing to the thin smattering of trees flanking the highway.

Warthrop swerved, yanking the Daytona back into the right lane, neatly avoiding a jeep as he hissed, “You saw the trains back on schedule and you did not think to inform me?”

“I’m informing you now.”

Sucking his teeth, Warthrop sped into the exit lane. It was a crowded bridge by-pass, cars whizzing past as busy as bees. He turned into a teeming gas station truck stop, pulling next to a smartly dressed young man pumping gas into his Mustang. Warthrop lowered his window and enquired if there was a train station nearby.

He pointed back the way they came. “The last Amtrak stop before you hit NYC is back that-a-ways in Stamford, no more than a couple of exits back. Exit 7, I think. Everything’s been a right mess—you trying to get there to help?”

Warthrop grunted something in the affirmative, and rolled up the window before heading back.

Like an antsy kid, the doctor shifted in his seat, arching his back and rearranging his lanky body while he looked for the exit. He poked at his lip. Pulled bits of hair that curled against his cheeks. Rubbed his jaw.

At last the exit barreled into view and Warthrop yanked the car into the deceleration lane, eyes darting around for the blue station sign. In a felicitous stroke of luck, the station was right outside the highway.

Pulling into the open-air parking lot some ways down—the parking garage had a cheap hand-written “Full” sign out front--Warthrop parked his car under a scraggy tree, its branches so knotted and bare, it looked like it was once snapped to pieces and pasted back together.

Warthrop slammed the door shut behind him, taking a second to straighten himself out before hurling open the back trunk, fishing his rucksack from the assortment of paraphernalia. Kearns joined him, observing the surroundings with a calculating eye.

“Now I can see why you keep your poor vehicle in such a state of disrepair and neglect. No one in their right mind would break in.”

“What are you babbling about now?” Warthrop snapped as he adjusted the large burden over his thin shoulders.

“Merely commenting on the charm of this station,” said Kearns, smiling as he hoisted his own pack.

Warthrop cast a glance at the passel of bagged refuse under some of the trees, a noisome caricature of a Christmas morning. From the gravel and shards of glass winking at them merrily, to the rumbling highway snaking over them, everything was stained in a peroxide grey or an infected moldering brown. Beyond that, several buildings grinned down at them like Odysseus’s Cyclops, mouths full of broken and discarded teeth.

The doctor snorted. Then he locked the doors.

When they entered the hard-edged building of concrete and metal—about as charming as a parking garage with its lights blown-out—they were immediately buffeted by a swarm of people, all warbling and shouting into dissonance of voices. There were people on their phones, people piled on each other, and people swarmed over the overtaxed attendants like fire ants. Despite the open glass windows, it felt remarkably like a prison, everyone borne upon the progeny of chaos.

Looking around, there was no signboard pronouncing any sort of train, in-bound or out-bound, Metro-North or Amtrak.

Pushing his way through the throng, Warthrop finally tumbled out to the front desk area where a frazzled attendant was busy printing out a ticket for a highly upset elderly man, who snatched her offering with a derisive sniff and stomped away, muttering about people who wasted his time.

Offering a bleary ‘Hello, how can I help you?’, she gestured Warthrop over with a limp shake of her hand. Warthrop walked up to the counter, spine straight and shoulders taut.

“Yes, I need the two earliest in-bound tickets to Penn Station as quickly as possible. My companion and I are medical doctors and we have urgent business, given the recent day’s events.”

Something sparked to life in her clearwater eyes, and a smile struggled to life upon her lips like a spring of greenery amongst the staid grey. “Yes, sir I think I might have something lined up for you and your friend.” Her bony fingers flew over her worn keyboard. “There’s a train leaving hopefully in an hour to Penn Station. It really depends on when the train arrives, though. But if it goes as planned, you should be there around three or four.”

With a couple of clicks, two pairs of tickets printed with the expediency of a typewritten draft. “Here you are, sirs,” she said, handing them to Warthrop. “I know it’s kinda gusty out there, but I recommend you wait out there rather than here. It takes a while to get to the platform and everyone is pretty testy.”

With a curt nod, Warthrop plowed his way through the mass of people and onto the escalator, Kearns following neatly behind. Once on the unprotected platform, they waited. Having nowhere to sit, Kearns leaned against the drab concrete of the overhead walkway pillar, while Warthrop paced, fingers twitching as they tapped his moving lips.

After nearly two hours a train arrived, dropping off a few folks while many more tried to file on. For Kearns and Warthrop, they spied a seat vacated by a couple and immediately ensconced themselves, lest they be scattered on opposite ends of the car. Kearns leaned against the window, chin in hand, while Warthrop sat back, eyes closed as if he was sitting fireside in his study, contemplating nothing more than the next installment of literature that had arrived upon his doorstep. When the train pulled free of the confiding station, the subtle sway of the carriage and monotonous _clack, clack_ could not tug the men from their individual reveries.

The highway ran alongside for a while, cars and concrete melding together in a fuliginous haze before vanishing in an instant, replaced by trees, fences, and run-down factories or desolate yards filled with all sorts of collections—broken car lots, acres of weeds and gravel, the forlorn expanse of unused track. That too, vanished as they entered New York City, racing through the Bronx onto Ward’s Island, and then straight into Astoria.

Over Brooklyn hung a sky of impossible blue and the East River was quickly left behind, spitting and frothing with anxious mutterings. All was calm, save the soft timpani of the rolling train and the human voices with their babble.

“God bless America,” muttered Kearns sardonically, watching the landscape slide past, a caked-on array of muted and poisoned color, broken here and there with the gaudy stamp of street art or some tawdry attempt at one.  

“Whatever do you mean by that?” asked Warthrop, cracking open an eye.

Kearns gestured out the window to the smudged New York skyline where nothing but several F-18’s flew past, shiny specks against the defile of the day’s events. “We all bless death when it is in the name of progress, but mourn when it is against us. Death is death, no matter how spectacularly we meet our maker. Why is it that this is a national emergency, but not the troves of people that die every day right under our noses or by our hand?”

“There hasn’t been an attack on the United States since Pearl Harbor,” said Warthrop, shifting forward in his chair. “It is understandable why the nation is worked up. It reveals the true state of our foreign affairs. Not that they have ever been stable.”

“Would the nation be so worked up if it was to learn of the diseases that riddle her veins or is it only when something smacks her upside the head?”

“People are more apt to pay attention to startling changes, not the slower, more debilitating ones until it’s rather too late. Which in a sense, this very much is. Not much different than the first shots at Fort Sumter or our penchant for riots. We do enjoy sticking our heads in the sand until a grand provocation forces us out of it.”

A smile tugged at Kearns’ lips as he eyed Warthrop. “Honestly, after decades of suppression, I’ve more wondered why they hadn’t yet attacked the UK or the US to this point. It does boggle the mind.”

At this point, several people had fallen quiet, listening to their conversation, their faces souring with distaste at the disparaging comments against their home country. One man turned in his seat, florid face afire and one pudgy hand clenching his briefcase like someone was out to steal it.

“How can you say such things?” he barked, drawing the lazy glance of Kearns. “We’ve just been attacked by a bunch of terrorists—godless heathens! And after all the work we’ve done as a nation to keep the peace in their little sandpit on the other end of the world? Have some goddamn patriotism, will you?”

Kearns rose a single brow. “Godless heathens? I can assure you that they do have a higher power just as much as you do. Or are you sadly misinformed on what constitutes the Islamic religion?”

“How can you defend such people?” spat the man, face purpling. “God or not, what they have done is against the one true God and country!”

Kearns cocked his head. “Wouldn’t that instead prove that God is on their side instead? That He has forsaken your nation for them? That their religion is the correct one since it seems He favors them over you?”

The man looked as though he was going to have an apoplectic fit, his entire person a spluttering cherry-bomb. Before he could explode, Kearns continued, looking back out the window.

“That is always the most frightening thing—to believe that the one being you have looked up to all your life is nothing but a two-bit fraud on the side of your enemies.” Kearns chuckled darkly. “That or the more feasible option, I suppose—that we are all as godless as the very heathens we paint each other as! A self-destructive and cannibalistic species hell-bent on wiping ourselves from this earth. Metaphorically, of course,” amended Kearns, with a wicked set to his grin.

“We have nothing to fear save our own humanity, that cancerous disease upon our hearts and minds. Let he who cast the first stone be without sin! And with that, not one of us is free—although I will be weary, my dear sir, because some of us have sins that might cause yours to pale in comparison.”

The man’s mouth flubbed open and closed, shed words asphyxiating upon his lips. He clamped them closed and turned away, only his incensed breathing giving clue to his state of mind. No one else spoke on the train, save in fervent whispers. Kearns’ words had stained the very atmosphere around them and everyone kept to themselves, lest they be tainted by the words of a man they all thought quite mad.

Warthrop cast a glance over at his friend, his back towards him as he watched the wine-dark sea churn beneath them. Reflections wavered in the warped glass. Their eyes met briefly; Warthrop dropped his towards the twin packs settled around their feet.

When he looked up, their reflections had vanished, replaced by the towering cage of the Manhattan skyline. Everything slowed, darkened and with an exhausted gasp, the train pulled into Penn Station.

 

***

 

The first thing they noticed was the smell: a leviathan’s breath of fire and death. It was a familiar scent, barely a year old, but Pellinore remembered it all the same.  

The second thing they noticed was the profusion of National Guardsmen, each with a grim countenance that set firmly under the sickly fluorescence light. Some cast an unfriendly eye about their flock, every passenger a wolf in sheep’s clothing. Others tried to smile reassuringly, but were too tired or somber to do it properly.

At the entrance to the A/C/E, a pair of exhausted firefighters were splayed upon the dirty ground, the thick ashy remains caked upon their boots and uniform, eyes caved in with soot. There was indelible set to their haggard features as one of them shifted, his helmeted head falling upon his partner’s shoulder.

Everywhere, upon every inch of reachable space, was plastered hundreds upon hundreds of notices, begging for any sign of lost loved ones. Cheap print-outs, hastily pasted photographs on blank paper with copied text, and a few homemade ones crafted by a child’s hand covered the hall, a grim remodeling of another iconic landscape.

Hurrying to the entrance, they hopped over several fallen notices, smiling faces frozen in time. Candles, flowers, and stuffed toys cloistered around the entranceway, a wordless hope like a freshly upturned grave; an inaugural set-up for the stage upon which they now entered.

Outside a wind picked up like a lathe, tearing up fitful bits of ash and grime and expelling them like leavings. Another cancerous cluster of memoriam engulfed the open subway entrance, its blackened maw empty and bereft. Several candles flickered, stuttering as the wind snatched their breaths like specters.

New York, that loud bustling epicenter of America, the boisterous cousin of raucous needs and unmannered tastes, had fallen silent, its ebullient façade smashed with the force of the terrorist’s blow. People quietly wandered to and fro on the streets. The usual New York traffic was still in place, choking and clogged as always, but dead. There was no honking, serving cut-offs or spending through the yellow just to make it to the other end. And everywhere stood taciturn policemen, stiff and ragged like hastily torn paper dolls.

The light turned red. Kearns and Warthrop dashed across the warped street, bags bouncing upon their backs has they headed east. People moved out of their way, eyeing them with a mixture of sympathy and apprehension. As they attempted to cross over to the next street, a sleepy-eyed policeman halted them at the tiny park corner of 33rd and Broadway, asking their intended destination.

“35th and Lexington. I have a friend that lives there,” answered Warthrop curtly, frowning as the light changed. Without the officer’s direction, some cars petered around, halting traffic even more. Warthrop returned his attentions back to the officer, who was not paying the least bit of attention. He was tossing a curious glance over Kearns, then at their military rucksacks.

“You off-duty personnel, then?” he asked, leaning back and puffing out his chest.

“Off-duty field doctors,” corrected Kearns.

The policeman nodded briskly before rubbing his eyes heavily. “Where you guys from, if you don’t mind me asking? It’s been a right mess here. They’ve been calling as many reserves and off-duty guys they could get. But a lot of you’ve been volunteers and you don’t sound like you’re from ‘round here.” He looked at Kearns.

“Aren’t you an astute policeman,” said Kearns.  

The officer smiled wanly. “I do my best. Though I’s hoping you two were somehow my relief. I’ve been here since last night...oh well.”

“We came down from Massachusetts,” interjected Warthrop. “Now if there isn’t anything else you may require—“

“Oh, yes! My apologies,” yawned the officer, stepping aside and allowing Kearns and Warthrop to continue.

They rushed across the street, feet barely avoiding the shell-holes filled with thick scum and non-descript hunks of refuse.

For Pellinore, he ran, delving into that city which used to call his name with the same longing as a long-forgotten friend. Now it held nothing for him. To see her as thus did not affect him—he was as indifferent as a stranger, eyes only watching for the obstacles which stood in his path.

But for everyone around him—the ashen businessman who trudged his way home with traces of her wounds upon his hands and feet to the families spending time with loved ones in the park—they were all shaken, a dearest friend lost forever.

Oh, New York! That urban firmament which a million hopeful lives and a million sullen counterparts spring from its fertile soil of fallen rubble and fermenting garbage—the remains of that most human of species! A face as unchanged as the boarded-up windows of the Bronx or the luminous front of Times Square, now forever lost save in the memory of everyone who have tasted her promises.

In the most brutal and savage of actions, Manhattan had been tilled, destroyed for a new course in this new century, but for better or worse, its citizens did not know. Dazed, lost in a home no longer their own, New Yorkers took to the streets with loved ones, holding onto voices and hands, their one lifeline in the numbing aftermath. Minutes shared together were tucked away like the most precious of treasures.

Breath intermingling with that of the reeling inhabitants, Warthrop sped down 35th towards Lexington, the autumnal trees bare, their few golden leaves clinging pathetically to their bare branches like a broken halo. In a skidding halt, Warthrop arrived at his mentor’s steps, shoes christened in filth and offal, ersatz leavings of a forgotten land.

Bolting up the stairs, Warthrop pounded on the wooden door.  Kearns stood a step below, soft breathing trilling the stagnant air.

The small pitter of shuffling feet answered. Warthrop straightened at the unexpected sound, his entire body vibrating with the force of his impatience.

The lock snapped back. The door pulled open a crack and Warthrop lurched forward.

“Will Hen—“

Warthrop drew back, incredulity smacked across his face. It fled, replaced in whip’s crack with utmost severity and ire, for the head of dark hair that rudely stared at something in his hands was not his assistant.

“Who are you?” the doctor demanded. “Where is Will Henry?”

The bespectacled boy looked none-too-pleased at being shouted at. His lips pulled into an annoyed pout and he turned his attentions back to the little hand-held device in his hands.

“He’s gone,” he said, smashing a couple of the buttons repeatedly. “Will Henry is gone.”

Warthrop’s gaze flew to Kearns. Then back. The boy was already closing the door, still glued to his device. Warthrop shot out a hand, grabbing hold of the wood.

“What do you mean, _Will Henry is gone_?” hissed the doctor sharply.

The boy pushed a button on his electronic, pausing the tinny music that kept playing along with bursts of incessant beeping. His little stub of a nose wrinkled beneath his large glasses as he turned around, hands on his hips. He let out a cartoonish sigh.

Filling his stout little chest with a huge gulp of air he yelled, “Are you deaf?”

Kearns roared with laughter.

Warthrop’s gob-smacked face pickled in an instant. “Is that how you greet the colleagues of Dr von Helrung, boy?”

The boy’s face scrunched up. “Yeah, if you’re being rude like that. I’m not ‘boy’. My name’s Reggie. And you don’t look like anyone Grandpa’d know.” He looked pointedly at Warthrop’s soiled shoes. “Mom says not to talk to strangers anyways. So see ya.” He tried to close the door on Warthrop’s hand.

With a snarl, Warthrop shoved the door back. “My name is Doctor Pellinore Warthrop, and you _will_ let me in! I am here to see Will Henry if he is in residence and regardless if he is or not, Dr von Helrung is expecting me.”

At his forward declaration, Reggie stopped trying to shut the door. His brows leapt up like grasshoppers. Then fell back to blatant skepticism. He looked from the bottom of the doctor’s splattered boots (tied erratically) to the top of his windswept hair (there was a leaf in it). Then he tucked his electronic into his overall pocket and crossed his arms.

“You’re not Dr Warthrop. That guy’s a famous monster hunter.” The boy sniffed and wiped his nose.   
“You’re just like one of those guys Mom told me not to give money to, always hanging ‘round street corners.”

Kearns stifled his laughter and Warthrop, abandoning all pretense of patience or propriety, spoke harshly to the little cretin on his mentor’s steps. “Now listen to me, Reggie. I am Doctor Pellinore Warthrop, one of the foremost leading scientists in the realm of monstrumology. Having studied under the great Dr von Helrung himself, I can rightfully say that it is a wonder he hasn’t boxed your ears in for your terrible manners upon his stoop! Now is he here or has he gone as well?”

Faced with the doctor looming over him, both hands pushing against the doorframe on either side, Reggie recoiled slightly, unable to withstand the demand raging in those backlit eyes. Reggie looked out the cage of Warthrop’s towering figure towards Kearns.

“Who’s he?” he asked timidly, pointing.

Warthrop drew back. “He is a colleague of mine. Dr—“

“Koury,” interjected Kearns with a scout’s salute. “Dr Koury. I’ve worked with Dr Warthrop as a fellow monster hunter.”

The reticence and fear vanished from Reggie’s countenance as the cheerful façade of Kearns not only corroborated Warthrop’s assertion he was who he said, but pacified him enough to ignore the fearsome doctor glaring at them both.

Reggie cocked his head. Then his eyes popped wide behind his glasses as he pointed at Warthrop. “Wait, so you hunt with him?” he nearly shouted to Kearns. “Grandpa’s best pupil? The Doctor Warthrop? That’s so cool! Grandpa says he never works with anyone, save Will’s dad! You’ve got to be really special then!” He cast a look back at Warthrop, though doubt still edged his perusal of the doctor.

Kearns grinned at Warthrop as he snorted in frustration at the boy’s temerity to hold Kearns’ word higher than his own. “Oh, yes, you could say that. I find that rather suitable. But yes, we’ve worked on a few trips here or there. Not as often as one would like, mind you. Monsters are quite difficult to come by nowadays. Though I think humanity as a whole would find that lack more than amenable.”

Reggie glowed, bouncing on the balls of his feet at Kearns’ every word.

Warthrop took a step forward. “Are you going to invite us in or not?”

He was ignored.

“Do you have any monster tales? Grandpa has this really neat one about Gypsies that Mom refuses to let him tell—but if he’s watching us, he’ll tell it to me and Lilly! Mom hates anything to do with monsters or anything creepy—says it’ll give us nightmares! So you got any?”

Kearns gave Warthrop a side-glance. Then he leaned back slightly, rubbing his moustache and considering the boy’s avid request. “Well, I would love to, but you see—“he tapped his chin—“it’s getting quite dark. It wouldn’t do to be out in this dreadful cold just to tell a scary story. I don’t think your mother would approve of that. So perhaps another time, mm?”

Reggie hopped up and down, fists clenched to his chest. “Oh no! Don’t go!” he whined. “Mom and them are all gone because they needed to check something back at work! But that was a while ago so they’ll be back soon, I promise. If I let you and Dr Warthrop in, then will you tell me a story?”

“I think that can be arranged.”

The small boy clapped his hands in glee before dashing back inside. “Mr Barty! Mister Bartyyyyyy! Grandpa has some friends here to see him!”

Flashing a smile, Kearns followed the scowling Warthrop inside as he whispered sharply, “I will never profess to understand a child’s mind. Believing every word from _you_ , rather than me, when from that entire exchange, there wasn’t a shred of evidence to prove we weren’t inherently murderers.”

Kearns chuckled. “Ignorance is bliss. I’ve always found the best way to get what _you_ want is to give in to exactly what _they_ want. An embellished truth is more often than not what is desired.”  

Warthrop’s lips thinned in response. “Quite so,” he acknowledged.

Finding his way into a room as familiar as his own library, Warthrop maneuvered himself around the neatly cluttered sitting room with all its Victorian regalia and mismatched antiques to the pale green chaise lounge. He shouldered off his pack along with Kearns and both made themselves comfortable on the couch.

A mop of hair peeked into the room. Finding his two guests, Reggie let loose an ear-splitting cry for Mr Barty to join them in the sitting room. Grinning at his tremendous luck at not having one, but _two!_ great monster hunters at his disposal, Reggie tossed himself on the opposite matching sofa, barely knocking over an in-progress chess set that sat majestically on the ornate teak coffee table. Warthrop grimaced as Reggie wiped his hands on the sofa and wiggled his dirty fingers.

Mr Barty, a burly African-American with close-cropped curls and a pair of glinting studs, arrived bearing a delicate tea service, a perfect juxtaposition against his dignified grace and bound muscle.

“Here you are, sirs,” he said, laying down the tray fluidly and without disturbing a single cup. “If you’d need anything more, just call. And Reggie?”

The boy looked up, face already full of tea cookies. He swallowed and wiped his face with a grin. “Yes?”

“Don’t spill anything on the rug, crumbs included. You know your mother’ll be upset that you keep making a mess at your Uncle’s house.”

“Ok, I’ll make sure,” mumbled Reggie, plucking a glass of milk from the tray with sticky fingers. Then he turned to Kearns and Warthrop, his stubby legs kicking furiously against the Chippendale couch. “So what’s the scariest monster you ever caught?”

“Mm. Going straight for the jugular,” Kearns paused in stirring his tea. “How about it, Pellinore? Which comes to mind?”

Warthrop’s leg paused in its bouncing. “Monsters are not inherently terrifying,” he said distractedly. “It is our perception of them that causes them to become as horrifying as they are. Nor are they even real—all monsters are merely assigned the moniker when they don’t fit within our own scope of what is altogether good.”

Reggie looked as though he just ate something bad. He looked back at Kearns. “You’ve ever been attacked by one?”

“Oh, yes. I dare say that comes with the job,” answered Kearns, sipping his tea.

“If you hunt them, you gotta kill them too, right? Do you shoot them? Chop off their heads?”

“Nothing so ghastly as that,” replied Kearns, crossing his legs and settling into the sofa. “My bosses like keeping them alive. Can’t study something if it’s dead.”

Reggie almost fell off the couch from excitement.

Warthrop snorted. He leaned back into the seat, shoulder brushing against Kearns. While Kearns’ voice spun truth into whimsy for the bothersome and altogether hyperactive child, he kept his eye upon the open vestibule, his ear trained for merest scrape of key or click of an opening door and waited.

 

***


	26. Beneath it All

The door fell open with a cheery click, depositing an exhausted John Chanler into his home with all the grace of a newspaper being chucked through one’s window.

"Home sweet home! Well, however close to home you can call it."

The older man gave an exaggerated yawn as he tossed his coat over the coat hook and thumped his back. Ruffling his hair, he moved over so the small form of Will Henry could peel off his shoes behind him.

With a grimace, the man tromped over to the open kitchen.

"Boy, am I starving. It's a good thing I thought to pick up some stuff before all of this happened—not to trivialize the day’s events!" John Chanler whirred around, gesturing frantically. Then he sagged against the counter and released an unsteady breath. He swiped the back of his hand across his brow.

"It's been one hell of a day, I tell you. I'm glad everything seems to be alright with both the Center and the Society but god, it does me good to see that all of you guys are doing fine too."

Turning around, John pushed up his sleeves and squatted, rummaging through the cabinets for a couple of saucepans. "Hey, Will, could you grab me the ground beef and that Ziploc of chopped veg in the fridge? Since Muriel's not going to be here for a while, I'd figure we start off with something good—you like spaghetti?"

Will nodded and rummaged through the fridge. Bundling the two packages in his arms, he scurried to Chanler's side, carefully laying the ingredients to the side while the fire clicked to life on the stove. Chanler filled the pot with water and shot Will a bright smile over his shoulder.

"So Will, how'd you get ol' Abram and Emily to let you go with them to the Society? Had to put up one hell of a fight, eh?"

Will fidgeted a bit with cellophane wrapper. "Yeah, sort of. When I told Dr von Helrung and Mrs Bates about wanting to see you and Clarky, they seemed to understand. But Mrs Bates still thought it was really dangerous for me, but..." Will trailed off and handed Chanler the meat.

"She still wasn't going to let you come despite you worrying about us?" At Will's nod, Chanler worked the meat into the pan, the hesitant sizzle bursting deliciously while John stirred it with a spoon. "Mm, well, I think I understand that. Abram’s always pretty lenient when it comes to stuff like that, but I also understand Emily's point there."

"I was going to go even if she said no," replied Will Henry flatly.

When he found out both von Helrung and Mrs Bates had planned on going to the Society and intended to leave him alone with both Reggie and Lilly, a white-hot blister fueled in his chest, one that demanded he go. He wasn't lying when he said he wanted to make sure Dr Chanler and his friend was alright, but that wasn’t the only reason. It was the only reason he was able to voice.

The pot bubbled heavily as John snapped handfuls of spaghetti in half and tossed them in to the gurgling water. He was frowning slightly, short brows quirked curiously as he pondered to himself. Then he turned towards Will, arms hooked on the counter behind him.

"You'd come no matter what, eh? You’re a very tenacious kid, Will Henry." His eyes, though sparkling, had taken a faceted edge to them, and he averted his gaze. "You just have to be very careful, Will. Abram could’ve informed you later that we were alright in the end, but..." Chanler made a funny noise and scuffed up the back of his head. Then he rubbed his ear before turning abruptly around and snagging a jar and dumping the contents with the meat.

When Will had arrived at the Society, Abram kept Will close by his side even though the area had been unscathed by the turmoil further south, save for a thick dusting that surged every now and then. After checking up on all his employees (including a thoroughly ensconced and stubborn Dr Penham who refused to leave her post, only relenting once von Helrung pointed out the phone lines were all dead, leaving her wife in the dark as to her condition), they had crashed into Dr Chanler hurrying helter-skelter into the atrium.

Though stunned at finding Will alongside his old mentor, John had been elated at Will's concern and let him know that everyone was safe including his friend, Clarky. Upon hearing the news, Will had deflated, all the tension easing out of him as effectively as if the young boy was there himself, squeezing him dry.

Calling the boy over, Chanler piled two plates high with the pasta and while Will poured the milk and brung it to the table.

"You know I'm not mad at you right?” He looked over at Will, his kindly demeanor trying to ascertain the closed-off expression upon the boy across from him at the table. “I mean—and Emily would probably kick my ass if she knew, but I'm really glad you did come. Really. Not only do we get to hang for little while, but I got a bit worried about you too." John laughed with a little shrug of his large shoulders. "It's not hard to do when you got a bunch of other kiddos to worry about all day."

Will smiled at the man’s admission. Then he started to eat. Even though he knew that Chanler was still upset that Will had done something he thought was dangerous, he was as pleased as a kid with cake that Chanler didn't hold it against him.

Mrs Bates, though she allowed him to go, hadn’t been pleased at all. Her lips pursed tighter than a drawstring bag. Her eyes stuck to Will as much as possible, checking to make sure he was exactly where she left him last, which was constantly by her or Abram’s side. It made Will feel like some toy dog kept to heel. Even the doctor had never made him feel that way himself, and it was very much understood that there was no other place Will should be than at his elbow like some perfectly sized end-table.

"I really wanted to go. And besides…I didn't know what else to do. Mrs Bates and Dr Abram tried calling you and some other people but nothing worked." Will looked up suddenly, his fork clattering against the table as a thought burst to life in his head. "Do you think the internet will be working enough so I could send a message to Clarky?"

John shook his head. "Not sure since it hooks up with the phone line. But if it keeps being like that, maybe we could see about sending him a letter or something.”

"Okay."

John leaned back in his chair and shoved his hands in his jean pockets. Feeling the crinkle of paper, he sat up, a twice-folded paper in his hand. He had the look of a man who had forgotten his wife’s grocery list in his pocket.

"Oh man, Will, I totally forgot! Clarky wanted to me to give this to you—I wasn't even sure if I was going to even see you any time soon, so I forgot about it. Here you are." He swept it across the polished tabletop to Will, who took it in both hands, reading the familiar scribble broken across the heavy creases. Will broke into a smile, tucking the battered paper against his chest.

"Thank you!"

John waved away the thanks, one hand against his fond face. "Don't mention it. I'm just glad I actually remembered that was in there. I usually forget to check my pockets until we do the wash." John winced. "Couldn't imagine how much trouble I'd get if I let his letter fall to a sudsy doom."

Will finished the rest of his meal quickly before tackling the contents of the letter. Chanler left him alone, collecting their dishes and retreating to the back rooms. Pushing in his dinner chair, Will perched himself on the sofa in the adjoining space, plucking open the letter with a small amount of hesitancy.

He hadn't had time to see Clarky for a couple of weeks now since the older boy started high school and Will, with the Bates still looking for an appropriate one for him to attend, was still just volunteering with Chanler or staying home.

Will also felt slightly nervous because the last time he talked to Clarky, it was about his lingering fears and the stupid hopelessness that sometimes bothered him. Though the other boy had been doing his best to listen intently to what he was trying to describe, Will had snapped at him for not understanding what he meant.

As soon as the harsh words had escaped his lips, Will had scrambled with a profusion of ‘sorry’s’ and anxious gestures. Clarky accepted it with his usual smile and nonchalance, but Will knew he’d hurt the other boy, from the tips of his fragile smile to the way his fingers retreated into his baggy hoodie.

Hearing his friend’s irate call, Clarky shot off his seat and left Will alone with a tiny wave and a pipped goodbye. There was nothing more he could do and like everything else, Will had shelved the incident and went through his day as if nothing happened.

He withstood every pestering question and demand from both Reggie and Lily with a stomach filled with flotsam and a few dredged-up fish. He hadn't even registered their interest, much to their irritation (also ignored). He was too wrapped up in his own internal rehearsals at apologizing: for all Clarky ever did for him was try to help as much as he could. It wasn't his fault that no matter what anyone did or how much he tried, he couldn't remove the entangled burr of hopelessness that resided within him, no matter how much he tried to extricate it with every action and task he took up.

Laying the paper in his lap, Will smoothed out the imported stationary, its small cutesy animals and bright colors the epitome of his dearest friend. When he wrote Clarky, he wanted to make sure to draw him something to go along with it.

_Hello Will,_

_I hope you’re doing okay. It's been a while, huh? Actually, I'm kind of nervous writing this out because I'm not too good at it. Why is email so much easier? Is it the same for you? What-ho, yes? (I learned that from a book, wouldn’t you know?)_

_Anyways, I felt bad about making you upset the other day. I didn't mean to. Sometimes it's hard because I don't know what to do when you're feeling that way. But I wanted say that I've been through that as well. But sometimes I don't know what to do. I all I know is that I don't want you feeling the same thing I did. Does that make sense? Haha, maybe this is why I got to take remedial English! Oh, well._

_But I wanted to tell you something. You know how you said you felt bad because you wanted your doctor to come back even though you also didn't want him to? That's how I felt once with one of my own foster families. They’re the third family I ended up living with and they had a dog and everything! But at first, I didn't want to live there with Mr Johnson and his son because even though they’re very nice, I didn't feel at all like them. I don’t think it helped that they were both grown-ups and I was a little kid. It was pretty scary._

_Mr Johnson worked very hard with something I still don't really understand (he had all these machines and parts in his garage, and once I got yelled at for being in there). His son went to college but every night we had dinner together. Every single night. Even if Mr Johnson was playing out in his garage or if Jonathan had late classes. But that was what made me want to stay._

_Did you know that was the first time anyone had done that for me? Everyone else just left me alone and it was very lonely. I mean at first it was great, because I hated all the moving and the strangers but after a while, you just get really lonely. Even now, if I think about it for a while, I wish I was still back with them._

_Back then, I didn't wish that because I knew it wouldn’t happen. Why wish for something you know you can’t get it, right? So I stopped thinking about it. But my situation is different from yours. I didn't know the everything when I said all that stuff—it was just what I thought. So I'm sorry if what I said made you sad. I will always be here for you whatever you choose, okay? Also, isn't Mr Chanler the best? He was the one that helped me understand why you felt so bad._

_To end on a happy note (you see what I did there?) I joined the baseball club! Yeah, it's not even baseball season but I was so happy they had one! It's a way to meet new guys (and girls **!** ) and we just do baseball exercises and stuff. It's really neat! Maybe when we meet again, we could play catch together? Yves refuses to. Says that he got studying to do, which I guess if I'm going to stop being mad, is true. But really, how can he coop himself up all time? _

_I hope everything works out the way you wish, Will. Write to me soon! If you don’t, I might throw something over at Yves’ head just to see if he’ll do something other than wolf down those books of his._

_Your friend,_

_Clarky_

_PS: I just handed this to Mr Chanler, so please if you can, tell me if you’re ok too? I don't know what's really happening yet, but it's gotten everyone scared._

Will read and reread Clarky's letter, wishing he was able to respond to it immediately, his stomach in knots at the idea of his friend worried about him in the same way he had been.

Slipping out of his seat, Will rummaged through his backpack where he left it near the foyer. He climbed back onto the couch and balanced his notebook upon his lap. Though he didn’t have fancy paper, he kept his writing uniform and neat and inserted little doodles where he could to make it nice for his friend.

A soft clink removed him from his thoughts. Will looked up to find Chanler grinning sheepishly at him, setting down one of his steaming cups upon the table.

"Ah, sorry about that Will. Here's some hot tea for you." John Chanler put his own tea cup atop a coaster and threw himself next to Will, upending a few tasseled throws with a loud _umph_!

"Oh, thank you," said Will, looking over at Chanler. The man looked thoroughly exhausted, his head tossed back against the cushions as he grimaced and swiped a hand over his damp face and hair.

"No problem, kid. Though I'm not too sure how much caffeine is good for someone right before bedtime." Chanler chuckled, slumping more into his seat and tossing his feet onto the coffee table. He nodded to Will. "If you'd like, when I check up on the place tomorrow, I can take back a letter to Clarky. He seemed pretty distressed."

Will fiddled with his things, poking the scrawlings on his paper as if to corral them together. "I feel bad about making him worry for so long."

"Oh, you mean that thing that made you two upset that last time?" John frowned. Then he turned and regarded the blank television across the room. "He's been pretty wrapped up about that. But you have to understand that even though he's like you in a sense, you both are actually really different as well. Getting together like peas and carrots and all that. I think he understands that now. It's funny how much you can relate so much to each other because of your circumstances, that sometimes it blinds you to the parts that are vastly different."

"Yeah. I got really mad because when he told me that I was being silly for still thinking about the doctor coming back it felt..." Will laid his things on the table and tucked his knees against his chest. "It just made everything I was thinking about louder in my head."

"Boy, do I know that feeling." John wrapped an arm about Will's shoulders, giving him a reassuring squeeze. "But I can tell you this: your parents would’ve been very proud of you given all that you have done. And yes, your mother too," added John, catching the boy nibbling his lip. "Maybe not for the exact same things, but you have worked very hard and I don't think many people can see that. It's hard to see how hard others are working when you're working hard yourself sometimes."

The arm around his shoulders felt like both a burden and a blessing, a secure weight and an uncomfortable pressure. Will craved it as much as it wished it belonged to someone else. A mixture of guilt fluttered at the soundless admission.

Over a child’s lifetime, they might find support from various venues or items, but nothing will ever replace the beloved one—the one that provided solace in the loneliest of nights or the anchor when everything had simply become too much to bear alone. And like countless things that come and go from one's life, Will had not foreseen that what came to reside in that barren niche vacated by his parents.

Endless tales. Fervent wishes. The absolution that as long as his father stayed with his beloved doctor, he would be alright—his father had spun that for Will. And like all forms of cherished comfort, it did not matter if it was unsuitable and ragged—its presence was what calmed his turbulent and restless soul.

Child that he was, Will couldn’t contemplate allowing anything else to take its place, stubbornly willing his heart to continue in its foolish hope that one day...one day everything will be as it once was.

When he had nightmares, his stifled sobs brought Mrs Bates from her room, bundled in her robe and nightgown to Will's trembling side. Her soft voice, filled with verse and song, locked the silt of baseless dreams away. Sometimes, even that wasn't enough.

Distracting himself away from dreams filled with everything and nothing, he would ask about her singing, learning her favorite songs and musicals and that she once dreamed of taking the stage. When Will asked why she didn't want to anymore, she had smiled while tucking him under the sheets. A bittersweet smile, but one that held no regrets.

_That's because I met Mr Bates. Then that became my world, Will._

Will shifted beneath John's hand. He pulled away slightly, but when Will merely scooted closer to him, head resting in the crook of his arm, John replaced his arm, holding tightly to the little figure pressed against his side.

Will shivered once beneath the warmth of John's arm. The hum and call of the city ambled past the open windows like a visiting relative, casually going about its never-ending business. Chanler clicked on the television, lowering the volume to a soft murmur. He flipped past the news channels, tired as Will was from the strain of the entire day. Though he hadn’t shown it with his continuous joviality nor when he led Will back to the refuge of his own home.  Here, he had shorn his chinked armor and looked as haggard and grim as the people they had bumped and jostled on the way back.

Feeble laughter echoed in the small apartment and Will Henry watched the delicate rise and fall of Chanler's chest as he breathed, his eyes having fallen shut a while ago. He wiggled loose, and poked John with a question. 

"Sir, why did you give up monstrumology?"

John's lips twitched, scrunching at the corners. "Umm, what do you mean by that? I still work with monstrumology."

"No, I meant...Dr Warthrop told me that you would have been one of the best in the field if you haven't given it up."

Chanler's eyes popped open like a boy awakened by a perturbing smell. "Ah. That. Well, I guess I should be flattered that Pellinore that well enough of me to say that." Chanler retrieved his arm and snagged his teacup, gulping the contents like a shot of cold medicine. He plonked the empty cup back.

"I didn't have to give it up, if that's what you're thinking. I don't think anyone in this world is really made to do anything, if they have the will enough—but I think that's me being obtusely romantic and idealistic. It’s just we don’t have all the time in the world to do what we always want.

“My work with monstrumology is one of those things. I don't let it dominate my life anymore. It used to, besides a bit of friends and associates here or there. Sometimes giving something that big up is a hard choice to make. And sometimes it isn't. Like school, for example. Once school was out of my life, I couldn't rejoice more!" John laughed dryly, tossing his hands behind his head.

"Some people choose to allow one thing to rule their entire lives and that isn't bad _per se_ , but it doesn't allow room anymore for other things. Like outings with friends or having a family."

That hit too close to home. Though Will knew that his father had loved both him and his mother with all his heart, they both learned that the doctor _always_ came first.

"Do you always have to choose one over the other?" asked Will quietly. "You can't have both together?"

"Well, that is the thing about life, Will. You _can_. I think that's what we all want but in the end, it's not always possible. I stopped field work because it was dangerous. I couldn't allow myself to become hurt—I had a family now. Maybe it would’ve been different if Muriel also lived in the world of monstrumology. But she didn't, so here I am.

“And not to say I don't enjoy every minute of it! I chose this and with it, I've my wonderful wife and wonderful students and I still get to talk shop with fellow monstrumologists. Just no more hunting and experimentation for me."

"You gave up what you loved doing for Mrs Chanler?"

"Not really. Yes and no, I guess? I mean, if I really could have my way, I wouldn't mind going on some outing with Torrance or hell, even some of those greenhorns, but it's not worth the risk in the end. When you get faced with one of those indeterminable paths in your life, you got the option of choosing it or forging your own compromising path, which is much more harrowing at times. It's new and wholly your own, so you can't know what’s in store.

"Remember how I told you about my dad? That path was already laid out for me with such precision that I already saw the end of my life before it’d even begun. There were other options, true, but even those held no appeal. So I made my own path and though I could see glimpses of what lay down it, I didn't know for sure. And here I am. It just takes courage to tromp and whack out the path you deem right for yourself."

"I'm afraid," Will admitted, looking away. "Every time I think about what I really want, it makes me not want to think about it anymore."

"Only you can really know yourself, Will. But that's natural. The more afraid you are, the more important it’s for you, and I think that says more than anything."

Will worked his lips with the reserved demeanor of a child called on to answer a question in class. His brow furrowed, creasing his face with an adult-like seriousness.

What _did_ he want when he lost everything that truly mattered? Will, the thick-headed boy, who hadn’t thought that everything he cherished could be taken away with the finality of a balled-up story tossed into the fire? He had truly been an addle-brained child, as the doctor often accused him, believing in the invincibility of his parents even as one slowly wasted away in both mind and body before his very eyes.

Will had always been good at running. But Will was becoming tired.

"How will I know if what I want is right?"

John looked up at the boy's trailing murmur, like unsure fingers upon the surface of a mirrored lake, disrupting its placidity. But before he could answer, a series of sharp sporadic knocks bellowed through the apartment, jolting both Will and John from the couch.

Clicking off the TV, John got up, brows knit as he straightened out his bunched up tee.

"Who's calling at this hour? Especially with everything that's been going on?" Before he even made it to the door to peer through the peephole, it shook again with impatience.

"Hold your horses! I'm coming, god damn…!" John's voice disintegrated into a gasp, then burst to life in an outshoot of curses as he wrenched open the door.

"Fucking—! Pellinore! What—"

"Chanler! Where is Will—"

"He's here, but what—"

"Are you going to let us in or not, John?"

"Warthrop! Will you cease in this atrocious behavior?" sniped another voice.

Three pairs of voices bickered amongst themselves, forgetting for a moment they weren’t the only ones there.

Will didn’t move— _couldn’t move_ —his limbs aquiver with an instinct akin to a wild-thing. Everything broke away in Will’s vision. He teetered, faltered, felt the very ground shift violently beneath him as if he was falling.

Dr Warthrop was here. And with Mrs Bates! But… _why was he even here_? The man he wished for vehemently with very fiber of his being was here like some cruel trick. Fate had gathered up every whispered murmur, tear-laden cheek and every daisy-chain of wishful thinking and now dumped them upon his head like a mocking show of gift-giving!

Even as Will wished it, he equally resented the very idea of the man showing up and acting as if everything he’d done was well and good. That he would pop in and out of his life and not know or understand the warring that went on within Will.

Will remembered everything. Of how Warthrop attributed his project’s failure to an act of betrayal on Will’s end. The damning silence of the household when Mr Chanler had come to retrieve him—of allowing him to take Will away without a single goodbye. Of that horrible tone that overtook the doctor’s anger as he looked down at Will, a monstrous god before the penitent sinner, waiting. Judging.

_If I don’t do this, I will have failed you…_

_And your father._

His head snapped up, words upon his tongue. But as quickly as they came, they had gone.

The doctor stood a few feet away. The doctor, with his dirtied boots and careworn assemble. The rough-shod hair disturbed by agitated fingers and sleep-deprived eyes.

John's tightly wound expression melted away to nothing. The stilted and forced welcome of Mrs Bates as she cast an angered glance at Warthrop. The figure that hung back in the vestibule with Kearns’ glint and sharpened grin.

There was nothing—nothing but the doctor. The joy and the dread. The trepidation and hope. All twisting with the rapidity of threads upon a spindle. The fervent wish made real, but not daring to believe.

Dr Warthrop took a step forward, the look upon his drawn and dusty features one of profound astonishment, as if Will himself was the last thing he, too, had expected.

“Will Henry?”

Will couldn’t move, like a frightened animal that does not come closer lest what is offered would be taken away. He felt a strong hand upon his shoulder and he flinched.

“Will, Pellinore has come for you.”

“Come…come for me, sir?”

John nodded once before looking at Warthrop. Both men were a study in similarities and differences, men woven from the same cloth yet dyed with the hand of experience against two separate paths. John's lips twisted, entrenching itself with some unknown emotion. Warthrop's followed suit.

“Yes, Will Henry. He wishes to take you home.”

Whatever they expected—relieved tears, an answering smile, perhaps a tinge of outright incredulousness—it wasn’t Will wrenching himself away from John's grip with the ferocity of trapped and snarling animal.

John let out a stilted sound as he tried to reach for Will.

But Will would have none of it, smacking his hand. He spun away in a whirlwind of equal parts shock and white-hot anger. It sprung up, electrifying in its fury from that hole in his chest, setting every limb atremble. The brittle shell he had pieced together over the months shattered at their feet.

“You!” Will shouted at Warthrop, eyes burning as he beheld the stony-faced man before him. “I’ve waited for you, and now you come here? Without saying anything?”

The man said nothing and it was as effective as tossing kerosene upon a seething fire. Will kept his distance, though every inch of his being screamed to throw himself at the man or to flee. Instead, he flung it at his feet.

“How could you? You can’t just do that!” he screeched, feet slipping on the carpet as he reigned the choking need to fling himself away. But the fury and disappointment was stronger, wrenching him to the spot like fetters.

Mrs Bates, bewildered and distraught at Will's furious upset, broke from behind the doctor and took a step forward, hands at a loss what to do. “I’m sorry William, but…Dr Warthrop insisted we allow him to tell you himself. I would’ve told you earlier but—“

“You could called me! Or wrote something—anything!” yelled Will, voice catching as hot tears splashed his cheeks. “You all planned this, but you never told me? Why?” Will coughed, throat convulsing beneath his hands.

“Why? Why would you leave me alone, sir? With nothing?” His voice withered, a washed up tide of festering hurt and pain.

Something shifted in the doctor’s eyes. Suddenly Will felt as if he was no more than some curious specimen upon his examination table. But unlike those unfeeling lumps of flesh, Will wasn’t numb and unfeeling. He exploded as if he had been the one infected.

“What am I to you, sir? What am I to you?! All I’ve ever done was help you with everything and follow what you say. And here I am! Even after you sent me away!” Will’s fists shook and he pressed them against his eyes. “You don’t know what’s best for me—no one does!”

“That’s enough, Will Henry.” Warthrop’s words, switch-blade sharp, effectively tore the hands from Will's eyes and garroted the tirade from the boy’s convulsing throat.

With steps as soft and silent as glass, the doctor came to the little boy, pulling free from the outraged Mrs Bates and the assessing stare of Dr Kearns, who hadn’t moved an inch throughout Will's outpour.

Dr Warthrop paused in front of Will, the gulf between them trembling like a captured bird. Will shook beneath that expressionless mask, but it was the eyes that held him, pinning him with their condemnation at his outburst and utter ingratitude.

"Is this how you wish to greet me, Will Henry, after all I have done to come for you?"

A tremendous upheaval resonated within Will's breast, a soft pittering of rain that suddenly became too much. It roared, running flush along the dry and desolate parts of his soul and he wondered, _Was this how the world felt, when God had sent his flood?_

His vision blurred. With a sickening alacrity, guilt and shame precipitated in Will's stomach, congealing until he was sure he would sick-up upon Dr Chanler's floor.

With a sudden lurch, Chanler was by Will's side. He thrummed with restrained agitation, hands tightly bound to his sides and ice-flecked eyes reining in every bit of control he could muster.

"Pellinore, I’d take more care with your words, however _unintentional_ their effects may be."

Snatched by the vehemence underlying his declaration, Warthrop turned to his ex-friend, from the unyielding set of his broad shoulders to his bracing step upon his floor.

Chanler tilted his chin up, the coldness melting into corporal iris-blue. His jaw worked, and he swallowed. "You brandy about the past, Pellinore. Don't remove its shackles, only to wield it."

Warthrop froze, hands falling open at his sides. "I have no idea what you are talking about."

"I was there too, Pellinore. _I can tell.”_

Something broke.

Will inched closer to Chanler. But he could not look away from the restrained gaze of the doctor, who stood silent and unmoving at his friend's words. His eyes fell upon Will's, something twisting and unbinding within their retreating depths.

John loosened, head bowing for a moment. He let out a shaky breath, with tinges of broken sound.  Then he faced his friend.

“It’s good to see you, Pellinore.”

Warthrop swallowed and looked about the room, at Kearns, at Mrs Bates and finally Chanler. But Will had the distinct feeling that the doctor wasn’t seeing them at all, but rather something only he could see, tucked inwards in the recesses of his memory. 

“Will Henry.” Suddenly the doctor was in front of him, kneeling at his side. Reaching into his back pocket, he removed a scrap of cloth and reached for Will.

Caught off-guard, Will flinched, bumping against Chanler. 

Pellinore froze. His hand fell away.

He pulled back, his austere doctor’s mask firmly in place. Then with the barest shift of his shoulders, he nudged the cloth against Will’s fingers. “It would not do to have your face dirty, Will Henry,” he stated matter-of-factly, as if it was just another day in the Warthrop household.

Clutching the fabric in his hands, Will’s tenuous sobs, buried deep within his throat finally spilled free in a cough of hiccupping laughter, disjointed like far-flung cast-offs. Despite the doctor’s words, the man’s face was its own picture of dishevelment with random marks of dirt upon his cheeks and a stray leaf in his hair.  As usual, the doctor’s singlemindedness left him adrift without a care to his own state.

“Are you laughing, Will Henry?”

Smothering his face with the hanky, Will answered with a muffled, “No, sir.”

The doctor hummed, fingers drumming the empty air as he leaned on his kneeling leg. He was no longer staring at Will, instead feigning interest in the whorls upon the floor. 

Will wiped his nose, watching the familiar play of constraint pinch at Warthrop’s face. The furrow of his brow, the unshaven cheeks, the thin hands with their dirty nails that strummed the air.

Will clenched his eyes shut, hands twisted tight around the soiled scrap of cloth. Though thoughts galloped wildly within his head, the very same thoughts that could not be bridled with half-formed words and fragile marks on paper, they were drowned out with the clamor of his heart. He reached out and tentatively brushed the handkerchief against the doctor’s face.

Warthrop froze. It was as if he was a pillar of salt, deathly still, save the slight widening of his eyes. Even those eyes, so constant in their movements, had quieted.

Will gently removed the leaf from his hair and allowed it to fall to the floor.

“I didn’t betray you, sir.”

“I know.”

Salt tumbled, oversaturated emotion pricking at eyes that could no longer see. Like a drowning man, Will threw himself at the doctor, hands clinging to the wrinkled fabric of his shirtfront. Almost immediately, Will Henry jerked back, recoiling in on himself.

“I’m sorry, sir—I-I’m so sorry!” he cried.

Warthrop’s hand remained suspended where it cast out for balance. Something passed along his features and snatched it back under his control. With a grunt he pushed himself up, frowning as he dusted off his slacks with curt snaps of his wrists.

“What are you sorry for, Will Henry?” he asked. 

Will floundered for a bit, caught off-guard by the frank question that had no other emotion behind it than someone asking how one’s day went. So Will said the first thing that came to mind. “That your work…your work can’t get published anymore, sir.” Will stared at the doctor’s dirty boots. "I know how important it was to you."

“Yes, well. There will always be that possibility in this field. It will have to be something that we ensure will never happen again.” The doctor cleared his throat and looked down at his assistant’s head, hands clasped behind his back. “But as they say, where there’s a will, there’s a way. There is work to be had, Will Henry. As long as we live, there will always be more work.”

Will clasped his hands together against his shirtfront. “Yes, sir.”

The doctor seemed to have something else to say, but whatever it was, it beat a hasty retreat. Rocking on his heels, he turned and called out, “John—“

But before Chanler opened his mouth or the empty doorway registered in Will’s mind, Mrs Bates had made her way to Warthrop. She looked up at him, simmering with a cocktail of motherly vengeance and stalwart concern for her ‘limited-time only’ adopted child. Her blue eyes crackled fire and her chest puffed out as she released an agitated breath.

“Dr Warthrop. Your fondness for James notwithstanding, if you think I’m going to let you walk out of here, without so much as a by-your-leave, you just proved my inherent belief that you constantly have your head shoved where the sun-don’t-shine, and I don’t mean your basement.”

Her hands sat stoutly upon her hips and with that particular set to her lips, Will wouldn’t be surprised if she were snag his ear in a fearful pinch. He’d seen the exact flaring brow and chin tilt when Lilly had once memorized her Uncle Abram’s passcode and snuck into the Monstrumology Library, making off with a book under the librarian’s nose.

“Will you ever give up monstrumology, Dr Warthrop?” asked Mrs Bates, running her tongue over her teeth as if saying the very word coated them with distaste. Even though her expression was one of benign curiosity, something lurked in those sapphire depths demanding answers.

“Even as you take in Will Henry for good, will you curb your obsession with your work?”

Warthrop’s eyes narrowed. “The two aren’t mutually exclusive. And no. It’s who I am. Would you ask an invalid to give up his means of mobility or an artist to give up his craft? And besides, I do not think this has anything to do with you.”

Mrs Bates bristled, a leonine ferocity curving her frown into a snarl and pulling her nails into a fist, lest she be tempted to pummel some expression into that coolly assessing face.

She regarded the man, this tatterdemalion doctor with his bushfire eyes and ocean-tide hair, swept in a contemptuous fit from his brow. She observed his old boots, worn so thoroughly every cease choked out grime, and the dirtied trousers that were tucked inside. His hands tightened as her eyes ran over him, mouth set in haughty challenge.

This was the monstrumologist.

This was the man who trekked through malaria-ridden jungles and disreputable marketplaces to obtain the most egregious of diseases—diseases not caused by microscopic viruses and germs, but those that thrust their insatiable maws into their hosts’ body, demanding with every swarm and propagation to be acknowledged and feared throughout the human race. This was the man who single-handedly, through his dogged efforts and self-serving tenacity, procured enough esoteric phenomena to amend the monstrumological compendium for an entire decade.

And here he was, having braved the world’s most renowned urban jungle, her decaying mark upon every inch of his body like a rite of passage to retrieve the one thing, the one _person_ , that like the very monsters that swam through an unsuspecting host, had had no bearing upon his world until now.

A heavy silence hung over the small ensemble and Will fidgeted under its weight. Chanler crossed his arms and regarded both the doctor and Mrs Bates with the air of a man watching a grisly operation in-progress, yet knowing it was a long-time coming. When Mrs Bates surged forward, John winced.

“I can see that like before, you won’t change. Not ever. Not for someone who loves you and not for who you profess to love. I pity you, Pellinore Warthrop,” she said, tilting her head up at him. Will half-expected her to snarl like a tigress. “I’ve always disliked anything to do with my uncle’s profession but there is no one else whom I pity more. You, who gave away everything to dirty your hands with abhorrent creatures and to play with monsters.”

Despite her words, the doctor remained unmoved, eyes returning a bland regard that rankled Mrs Bates even more.

“You are wasting both your time and pity then, Mrs Bates. I have no need or desire for it. There are thousands of poor souls in this sprawling metropolis who could do with it instead. I have all that I can ever need. It would behoove you to remember that.”

“Is that so? Then why are you here?”

“Have your facilities not been engaged at all during our correspondence? As stated before, I am here to bring Will Henry home with me.”

She raised a brow. “So you shall be his surrogate father then?”

“I shall be nothing of the sort.”

“Why should I agree then, Dr Warthrop? To take Will Henry from a real family to allow you to be _‘nothing of the sort’_ to him? What in your right mind will even consider that I’d uphold and bless such an idea?”

“Because it is what Will Henry wants.”

“Really, now?”

“Yes.”

“We both know it’s more what _you_ want, guised under what you say he wants. It’s not as if you even consulted William on this matter whatsoever.”

But even as she argued, Will could see her resolve fraying. She knew his choice and had always known, from the very minute he had come to live with her and her family. Her eyes fell from Warthrop’s to his, where he stood by the doctor’s side.

“You were always a little in love with death, choosing it above all else,” she whispered. “Are you so vain to drag William down with you?”

John held out a hand. “Now, Emily…”

“I am not dragging him anywhere, Mrs Bates. Will Henry has always been free to choose. I never said otherwise.”

Even in defeat, Mrs Bates maintained a stately grace, unbreakable and unwavering. She took that final step up to Warthrop with her head held high, a mere inch between them. With a fierceness unabated in her loss, she stated, “That boy called for you, Warthrop. Whether from dreams or nightmares, I do not know. You’d do well to deserve such a child and I hope you remember that.”

And with that she left, shutting the door with a final click.

 

***

 

Will couldn’t sleep. Though he was exhausted to the very tips of his toes, he couldn’t get his mind to focus on falling asleep. Or at least stop its apparent fascination with the bumps on the ceiling or the threads in his blanket.

He thrust off the scented sheets, the once-cool fabric now hot and constricting against his bare arms and clothed body. The trundle protested with a metallic grunt as Will heaved himself off the thin mattress. Rubbing his eyes, Will went to the narrow window where rough orange light fell upon the child’s desk placed there. Careful to avoid scraping the chair against the floor, Will sat down and rested his head in his arms.

Von Helrung had been kind as always, allowing the Will to pick one of the two guestrooms for his own (for which he was eternally grateful since he had no desire to share a room with the flatulent Reggie or the boisterous Lilly) and Will had picked this one for the unobstructed view outside. The doctor’s mentor had offered the use of his home to both Warthrop and Mrs Bates in light of the day’s unexpected events and luckily, his home was commodious enough that only a tinge of uncomfortable hostility sparked whenever the two met each other in passing.

Outside the world hummed, the drone of cars and rustling of leaves rising like evaporating rain on a hot summer’s night. In the brownstone, tucked away with its little garden and warped iron fence, everything radiated a quiet expectant trill, skittering along Will’s arms and the back of his neck. Turning his head in his arms, Will regarded the unused bed next to his.  

It was so surreal, like something out of a storybook. That, after realizing and accepting that he needed to stop expecting the doctor to turn up any day now, the man actually had. It was if giving up the hope for what he really wanted precipitated its being granted.

Will hadn’t stopped feeling angry that everyone had kept the doctor’s intention from him, not only allowing him to continue in his misery, but assuming what they agreed on was what he wanted without even asking him. He knew he was too young to know everything that was good for him, but Will was Will— _why wouldn’t he know what he wanted?_ It chafed and annoyed him, but it was late and he was too tired to bother with it any longer.

Now Will wasn’t one to try and wrack his brain about anything past what he was able to discern, but he couldn’t help but wonder about the doctor.

Will closed his eyes, remembering how the man’s face as he fought for balance after Will had flung himself at him like some drowning victim. He tried not to think about it too much as it always brought an embarrassed flutter to his belly. But beyond that, if only for a moment of time, existed an unexpected sliver of something he’d never expected to see again.  

With a startling expediency, he needed to see the doctor; to hear his voice—to know that what happened was _real_.

Not a dream. Not a visit. But that he was really going home.

Will scampered out of his seat and bit back a yelp as he stubbed his toe on the metal frame of his trundle.  Keeping his steps quiet enough to sneak past the Bates’ rooms, Will made his way down the dimly lit hallway.

Will traced his fingertips along the walls, anxious feet carrying him past the room he knew Lilly claimed for her own. Will had no desire to see if his late-night secreting was enough of a juicy adventure for her to clamp herself to him like the worst sort of sidekick. She had the most concerting knack of always being able to chatter away without taking the barest notice of what was going on.

At least that was what Will _had_ thought, until he found out that she was supremely cognizant of their surroundings. After remembering her uncle’s passcode and yanking Will in with her, she had tossed him straight to the wolves as soon as the librarian spotted them. With a tootle-do and a breezily-tossed kiss, she scarpered straight out the doors and left a dazed Will to fend for himself.  

Making it safely past her door, Will plunged into the brightly lit vestibule and snippets of conversation rose to meet him. Both Dr Warthrop and von Helrung’s voices emanated from the sitting room opposite the stairs and with a quick glance through the railing, Will stole quickly behind one of Von Helrung’s tremendous oriental vases, stuffed with a profusion of dried lotus pods, flowers and peacock feathers.

He scooted close to the vase, enough so when he peeked through the crack between it and the wall, he could glimpse into the front half of the sitting room.

The doctor was reclined on the sofa, head resting upon the arm and laptop open upon his belly. The jilted clack of the keyboard punctuated the silence as he pecked out something. Von Helrung shuffled against the stereo sideboard, plunking free a crystal stopper from one of his various decanters and poured himself a drink.

He turned, eyes twinkling like the polished mirror behind him. “So Pellinore, whatever happened to your loquacious friend? From what I hear, he had many stories to tell. Reginald refused to talk of little else when I tucked him in bed and his mother little else afterwards. He seemed to make quite an impression before vanishing.”

There was a sigh from the couch. Warthrop reached a hand behind him and blindly plucked free one of the teacups from the end-table. He took a sip, returned the porcelain and shifted against the cushions.

“Jack has a penchant for such things and since your grand-nephew refused to allow us admittance unless given a peculiar sort of story, Kearns obliged. Then the child proceeded to wipe himself upon your furniture like it was an oversized and underused napkin.” Even from his hiding-spot, Will could hear the soupy tone permeating the doctor’s every word.

“So that was Dr Kearns?” Von Helrung sounded mildly surprised, like he expected something wholly different than the affable Englishman.

 “Quite so.” Warthrop snorted, fingers tapping a sporadic rhythm against the laptop. “As for where the good doctor went, I do not know. Nor why. Quite honestly, I’m perplexed why he even bothered at all. But given everything the man does, his _modus operandi_ is in fact not having one at all. So in essence, I cannot say I’m truly surprised.”

Von Helrung eased himself into a matching armchair and hoisted his short legs onto a patterned ottoman. “Perhaps he came here for the attacks? There has been an outpouring of volunteers from all over.” Von Helrung’s joviality flickered for a moment, as he discreetly lit a cigar. “Not to mention it is an environment ripe for chaos. Anything may happen to those that get close to that epicenter of death and destruction.”

The mantle clock chimed the hour while Von Helrung puffed on his cigar. Warthrop sat up and set down his laptop upon the tiny end table. He was frowning, his deep-set eyes affixed to the richly ornamented wallpaper across from him. Then as if breaking from a trance, he thrust his fingers into his hair, shoving it back from his scalp.

“That is what’s been irking me. He wanted to accompany me before all of this.”

Von Helrung’s eyes widened a fraction before he looked away. His fingers tapped a few times before removing the cigar for deep exhale, bathing his snowy hair into an ashen grey.

Warthrop rested his chin upon his upraised knees, taking on that familiar far-off look of one preoccupied.

Will wasn’t wrong then, as he first thought. The man _had_ been there though he wasn’t sure, given everything that had happened at Mr Chanler’s place.

But like Warthrop, it made Will wonder why he was even there in the first place. Kearns wasn’t a man content to sit by or tag along just because his friend wished him to, which in of itself was reason enough. But he had come with the doctor to see _him_. Given their parting months before, Will couldn’t wrap his head on why Kearns had bothered, if New York itself was his true destination.

The doctor uncurled with a huff, socked feet hitting the floor. He wiggled on the couch and extricated a worn slip of paper from his back pocket, which he handed over to von Helrung.

“Here, what do you make of that? I meant to discuss this with you earlier.”

Perching a pair of reading glasses on his nose, Von Helrung’s thick brows shot up as he read the note. “Ah! You got to visit with Russell?”

Warthrop nodded curtly. “Yes. John informed me of his visit back in May in regards to scholarships concerning international liaisons and opportunities.” He sighed. “It was pure chance I was able to engage with him. I have Torrance to thank for that.”

Von Helrung lowered his glasses. “Jacob?”

“He invited me to his usual haunt. I did not anticipate that Dr Wittgenstein would be in attendance,” came the terse reply.

“That is…most unusual. Russell is not one to take social calls and in a fashion such as this? I am surprised! What was his reason?”

“He came because of Dr Solowit.” Warthrop’s face looked as though the presence of Dr Solowit rivaled a party of unruly children and no parents to watch them.

“Dr Solowit! Do not tell me Torrance did something to cause Russell another complaint!” exclaimed von Helrung.

“ _Oh no_ , Meister Abram. Compared to Boston, he was boy on his Sunday best! It was your estimable Command of Finances. She was out for blood. Torrance took the initiative to endow Solowit with the crux of my dilemma. I do believe it was his way of _helping_ , since he is not suited for such things.” Warthrop pinched the bridge of his nose. “That is not a night I wish to repeat within this lifetime. I have no plausible explanation for why she seemed to take it to intricate herself into what was none of her business whatsoever.”

There was a significant pause, while von Helrung took great care in tipping his cigar free of ash. Warthrop shifted and eyed his mentor expectantly.

“Well?”

“Well…that explains her tirade that one morning,” was all Von Helrung said with a shrug of his broad shoulders.

Warthrop harrumphed and threw down his arms. “Really, Abram! You need to curtail her penchant for collecting people’s business as she does their money!”

“That is an impossible task, Pellinore,” said Von Helrung with an ill-concealed chuckle. “You know as well as I do that is precisely why I hired her. She is very good at calculating risks, which is most helpful in recruiting more future monstrumologists and keeping us funded. I shudder to think if I hadn’t caught the previous man stealing us blind! Him, still in charge of our finances!”

Warthrop made an assenting grunt. “But back to the topic on which I wish to confer. Russell’s protégé will be graduating this year if I’m not mistaken?”

“You are talking of Verne, yes?”

Warthrop nodded. “It seems that her current research is exemplary, considering the superfluous amount of praise Dr Wittgenstein heaped upon her ongoing research. So shall we have a Congress with some actual progress? Rather than replication studies or rehashed efforts with spending that rival the prodigal son’s?”

Von Helrung let out a hearty chuckle. “We discussed that and are looking forward to her presentation next year. If there was any student that could come close to either you or John, it will be her!” Von Helrung wagged his finger as his former pupil. “Don’t think this old mentor of yours has lost any memory for you at that age. I know exactly why you ask this of me. And I will only say this: if she enters a paper in the Congress that shares your own, be prepared for a most enthusiastic battle!”

“If Russell’s unnecessary advocating of his own pupil is to go by,” Warthrop muttered. “I do not plan on evoking some internal contest just to prove my worth against a young student fresh out of preparatory training. I am merely intrigued that someone shows some worthwhile promise. Torrance was the last one and it was nearly five years ago when he graduated.” He shook his head and took a sip of his tea. He clicked his tongue. “No, Meister Abram, if I was to lay a bet once again on promising candidates, it would be Ms Aisley Cooper.”

Von Helrung gave a snort. “ _Mein_ Pellinore, you are craftier than your own good. And my dear Helena always believed I should watch out for John! But no, I always knew who had more potential for cunning,” said the older man with a grin. “Do not think for one second I didn’t have time to immerse myself in your finished work while you fetched William! It is a most phenomenal find.”

Tipping a few ashes into his ashtray, the older man leaned in closer. “I shall get in touch with our consular agents on this matter. It might not be published for years, but I shall ensure proper credit is given when that time comes.”

The doctor inclined his head. “Given the circumstances, I could not ask for anything more.” Then following suit, Warthrop leaned in as well, his lanky arms folded over his splayed legs.

“Now, Meister Abram, there is something else I wished to discuss with you.” His head dropped and Will heard him inhale deeply. He glanced back up. “As you told me over the phone, your niece indeed had some peculiar words she wished to address to me regarding to the situation between Will Henry and myself. It was entirely uncalled for, but I merely attributed to that motherly instinct that resides within all female-identifying persons.”

At that, von Helrung snorted once again, a funny set to his face that looked as though someone gave him a pleasing dish, only to find it tasted bad. But the doctor didn’t seem to notice.

“What I wish to say is this: I will continue as I’ve done. I shall not allow the loss of my assistant to interfere in my work, you can be assured of that. Though my work regarding the roundworms did not lend itself to the satisfactory results I ‘ve hoped for, that does not prevent me from requesting from you any potential leads that may present themselves in the near future. Do not hesitate to inform me of any developments that I may render my aid and expertise. It is for these future expeditions that I have been educating Will Henry in how to properly assist me and my work. Not only that, he has expressed that very same desire to continue in his services to me. Though he lacks the innate fortitude his father had and the customary aspiration and alacrity attributed to those that wish to pursue monstrumological endeavors, his services have proved indispensable for me.”

Something thumped inside Will at the doctor’s words, and he felt a bit discombobulated. Will tucked his knees closer to his chest.

Von Helrung stubbed out his chunk of cigar and leaned back, propping his head against his fist, looking over his former pupil. 

“Then perhaps you would be interested in this graduating class’s final thesis reports? I did not see the need to include those papers that did not pass the mark.” Von Helrung’s jovial smile quirked a bit at the corners as he fished for something on the short coffee table. Then he laid a thick packet into Warthrop’s hands.

“No doubt the Writing Center had to take a holiday to restore their mental facilities after reading such things?”

“Not as dearly as you think,” chuckled von Helrung, hopping to his feet. “There were only two Unsatisfactories this year. I do believe the extra requirements required of transfer students helped dock those not up to the task, since that was our biggest concern these past couple of years regarding retention rates. But, Pellinore, would you like anything? I fear I must raid Anton’s lair for something for my poor stomach.”

Warthrop replied in the negative and stuffed his face into the pile of papers.

Catching the older man making his way from the sitting area, Will shoved himself flush against the wall. Though he was sure he wouldn’t get in too much trouble for being out of bed and listening in on Dr Warthrop and Dr von Helrung, he wasn’t keen on finding out.

Von Helrung ambled into the foyer. Then he paused.

Will held his breath.

Unfortunately, the man must had some sort of a sixth sense because he immediately made a beeline for the vase. But before Will could squeak in surprise, von Helrung held one finger to his lips and cast a furtive glance over his shoulder.

Dr Warthrop was engrossed in the passel of reports upon his lap and gave the impression that even if Will had recruited both Bates children and their great-uncle to lob snack-cakes into his den, Warthrop wouldn’t have even noticed until he stepped on one.

Von Helrung’s eyes crinkled at the corners, happy and not at all perturbed at finding Warthrop’s young charge tucked in a corner like some guilty stowaway. “Ah, William! Good evening. How are you?”

Will scooted a bit, away from the vase and its aperture. He wiggled his toes uncomfortably. “I’m doing fine, sir.”

“That is good to hear.” Then reaching out to Will, von Helrung held out his hand and helped Will to his feet. He tch’d at Will’s rumpled sleepwear and brushed out his pajamas with a few sturdy pats.

“There! I shall have to have Barthlomew sweep again if you can gather so many dust bunnies, yes? Now Will, you should be off to bed. It would not do if you failed to fall asleep before Pellinore!” Taking a step back, Von Helrung nodded, agreeing quite enthusiastically with his own assessment of his young charges.

“Yes, sir. I will do that.” Will made it to the stairs before he glanced back, finding that the elderly man hadn’t moved. He gave Will a fond wave and something warmed within the boy. He returned back to his little bed and fell asleep almost instantly.

 

***

 

Will snapped awake to the most peculiar feeling that took a moment to sort out in his sleep-addled brain. Someone was poking his foot.

Self-preservation instantly high on his list of priorities, Will shucked his feet under the covers. He bunged said covers beneath them as well, just in case. Then he peeked over his blanket.

Above him a shadow lingered, hovering over the lower end of his small trundle, the sight of which punched Will’s poor heart straight past his throat.

But as the gloom withered away from the jittering shadow, Will recognized the thin form of the doctor sitting on the bed above him. His awkward frame was folded atop his flannel-clad legs, perched on the edge of Will’s mattress.

“S-sir?” His heart then bunkered on home, plopping directly into his stomach like a soggy clump of socks. Will made to sit up, but the doctor held out a staying hand. Not sure what to think, Will settled back into bed. Feeling a bit exposed, Will wiggled onto his side, bunching the covers in his hands.

“Sir, do you need me?”

The doctor shifted, his profile becoming stark against the ambient grey. He regarded the room while tissue-paper shadows of trees wavered benignly upon the floor. “It’s nothing, Will Henry.”

Something about his voice sounded so unlike the doctor, as if Will was hearing it across some opposite shore rather than a few feet away. He seemed hesitant, as if he had words to say but couldn’t voice them. Or perhaps voicing them was a responsibility that he did not wish to shoulder.

Will huddled further into his blanket, tucking his knees close to his chest. He suddenly felt very cold. 

There was a movement, nearly indiscernible. Then his shadow shifted abruptly; the bed creaked as Warthrop retreated and pulled the covers over himself.

“I was merely testing a hypothesis,” came the doctor’s voice above him, clinical and precise. As if he did nothing more than prod one of his mysterious packages upon his examining table.

Will waited, but the doctor did not elaborate further.

“A hypothesis, sir?” Curiosity won over uncertainty, though not being able to see the doctor helped somewhat.

“Yes, a hypothesis. To which I believe I have concluded with sufficient enough information for now, Will Henry,” said the doctor in a tone that stated he was done and done for good.

With his fingers entwined in an invisible cat’s cradle, Will shut his eyes and willed himself to fall back asleep, lest he say anything more stupid. But even as he put the missive to head, Warthrop spoke up as if he hadn’t just smacked the last conversation out of the air and smashed it dead against the counter.

“This is the trouble with taking residence in a home furnished by those of average height, Will Henry. I rather feel like one of Procrustes’ victims, merely waiting for him to pop out of that closet there and lop of my feet so I could fit this bed.” At this, he gave his feet an experimental jiggle as if he expected them to be nicked by said mad procurer of human feet.

Will ogled the sliver of open door next to their beds and shot his own feet as close to his body as he could. He never viewed his feet in an affectionate manner, but it wasn’t as if he wanted them dangling on the end of someone’s keyring either.

“What do you mean, sir? Why would a man want to chop our feet off?”

“My feet, Will, not yours. For you, he would stretch you out until you fit yours, though given your small stature, that might take a bit of effort.”

Will wasn’t sure he was even remotely interested in the efforts of madmen that popped out of closets to make sure you fit your bed.

The doctor shifted and like a cat, his dark glittering eyes peered down at Will from his bed.

“What kind of work did you do with John at the Centre?” Warthrop’s tangential questioning was not unlike an overnight field-trip where his classmate’s random thoughts were as plentiful as the mosquitos buzzing in his ear.

“All different kinds, sir. We didn’t do anything like what I do with you. It was mostly helping with his teaching stuff—oh! but he allowed me to get the dead animals to change the display. I’ve always wondered about those because you see them and you know they are real, but at the same time since you don’t know, you don’t think they are. I really liked being able to see so many strange creatures and touch them. Clarky helped too, but since he had school in the morning it wasn’t a lot.”

“Clarky?”

“Yes, sir. I met him when we saw Dr Chanler at that exhibition. He’s my friend.”

“Your friend?” A hearty chunk of skepticism entered his tone.

“Yes, sir,” replied Will a bit soupily.

“Does he plan on studying to become a monstrumologist as well?”

Will hesitated. Clarky hadn’t said anything of the sort, but not talking about it seemed an answer in of itself.

“I don’t think so, sir. He never told me so. He likes to talk about baseball a lot and he’s really good at finding stuff. Like research or when Dr Chanler misplaces his notebook. But I don’t think he knows what he wants to do yet. His friend does though. Yves. He wants to work with chemistry.”

Warthrop gave some sort of grunt which, being wrapped up snuggly in his blanket, made Will think of noisy burrito. Instantly Will slapped on the blandest face he could muster. He dearly hoped the doctor wasn’t hiding any sort of mind-reading powers.

Suddenly Will shot up off the mattress, stamping the doctor’s face with a look that plainly thought Will had lost all his senses.

“I forgot my letter at Dr Chanler’s house!” he exclaimed.

“There’s no need to shout, Will Henry. Chanler is quite capable at dispatching your letter himself.”

“It’s not that, sir. It’s just...well, I didn’t finish it. I promised him a drawing. Clarky, I mean. That was the only thing I didn’t do.”

Warthrop waved a hand. “The nature of letter writing lends itself to another possibility in the future, does it not? I do believe that this…Clarky will not mind waiting for another letter.”

“I mean…if that’s okay?” Will plucked at his blanket. “We’ve just been doing e-mails before because we don’t have stamps. So that was the only one I planned on writing out and sending. But do you think that would be better?”

The doctor rolled onto his back at the query, hands clasped upon his belly, looking for all the world a camper contemplating the stars above him. His fingers twiddled and his lips dragged back, as if he didn’t like what he saw up there. His eyes closed and he gave a long-suffering sigh.

“Physical letters are often better, yes. I do dislike the ambiguity that is this modern technological age. One cannot discern the depths of one’s feeling through mere words alone, Will Henry. It is why graphology exists. There is a lot to be say with one’s handwriting.”

Will couldn’t make heads or tails what the doctor meant at all, though he figured that letters allowed it to be more personal. Sometimes Will wished the doctor was less wordy because it always made his head full and his stomach empty.

“I appreciate it, sir,” said Will. He yawned widely and rubbed his eyes. “I really did like the letter he gave me too. It made me feel very happy.”

There was no further comment from the doctor and Will felt himself ebb away into sleep. But before he drifted off, he heard the doctor speak one last time, very soft and very quiet. If he had been far away, Will would have discerned perhaps, they were not intended for himself.

“That is understandable. After all, is that not its purpose?”

***


	27. Legacy

The tap gushed softly, filling the chilly bathroom with steam and adding to the steady _clink, clink_ as Will cleaned his razor free of foam.

“To think, Robert recommended that…that lady! I can tell you, Will Henry, that a certain Mrs Beerstottle was more interested in snooping through my belongings than doing her duties as prescribed by her superiors. One would think common courtesy became unfashionable with the whole feminist movement!” The doctor gave an agitated swipe of his hand. “The next time Robert shows his face at my door, I will have a few complaints for him.”

“Yes, sir.” Warthrop was ready to work himself into a fine rant, which normally Will allowed to run its due course, but he wasn’t about to cast himself in the starring role of his next by letting him make them both late for their appointment.

“Dr Warthrop?”

“What is it now, Will Henry? Don’t tell me you weren’t similarly affected. I saw your face when she decided to give a poke around your room.”

Will made a face. “I agree with that too, sir but…I can’t keep shaving you when you keep moving so much.”

Warthrop pressed his lips closed as if it should be within Will’s ability to shave his face while he was avidly in use of it, but otherwise he held himself still. With haphazard swipes of his razor and tongue poking out, Will finished quickly.

A few days after they came back home, Mrs Beerstottle arrived unannounced to 425 Harrington Lane to conduct the home inspection that was required for Will’s adoption to proceed. She was a very cheerful middle-aged lady who happily claimed reign over three children of her own and wouldn’t look too out of place in a little house on the prairie. She exclaimed in delight over the age and condition over the old house, bustling to and fro from every single room.

Will and Warthrop retained tight-lipped witness to her mourning over the bits that needed sprucing up and gushing over the bits that were still part of the original design.

But she seemed way too interested in all the little knick-knacks and equipment that lined Warthrop’s sanctuaries, his basement bearing the brunt of her eager onslaught. She poked her pert little nose into all of his drawers and always came too close to touching anything and everything. Whenever she asked questions about what he did in the basement, both Will and Warthrop would answer with philosophy. Otherwise, everything was a clipped yes or no, hoping that the mandated inquisition ended without either of them exploding.

“Oh dear, these little critters in these jars…are they dangerous?”

Warthrop’s hands twitched where they were fisted at his sides. “No, since they are dead and therefore incapable of any harm.”

The lady tittered. “Oh my, it’s like one of those mad scientist basements though! All creepy-crawlies and scary tools! Such things can give even a little boy nightmares! I couldn’t imagine living here myself!”

Though Will could tell she meant it as a joke, her statements irritated him. “You don’t have to, ma’am. Because I’m the one living here.”

Mrs Beerstottle wasn’t too warm to either of them after that.

Will finished shaving the doctor and went to rinse off his tools in the sink.  

Released from his ward’s grip, Warthrop popped off the toilet like an excitable child. He went to inspect himself in the mirror, crowding behind Will and nearly squishing him into the sink.

“Will Henry, must you crowd the sink? Never mind, take a seat.” Warthrop jabbed a finger at the commode. “And snap to, Will Henry! Our appointment with Mr Price is in less than an hour.”

Will ducked under the doctor’s arm as he reached over to grab something from the cabinet and perched himself in the doctor’s spot. “Is this the last meeting we’ll have with him?”

“I believe so. Now hold still, Will Henry.” He dumped a liberal amount of cold sandalwood-scented goop upon the boy’s head. Will let out an undignified squeak.

“What was that?”

“It was cold, sir.”

Warthrop grunted. He was a bit rough in his attentions, practically trying to wrestle his cowlicks into crying mercy. “Do you have the list, Will Henry?”

“Yes, sir. It is in my pocket.”

“Is it finished then?”

“Uh, no. Not yet.”

“No? Why not?”

“Because I’m here.”

“Are you being cheeky, Will Henry?”

“I don’t try to be.”

“Make sure you finish it then. I am not subjecting myself to another grocery trip if there is something missing.”

“I will.”

After a few moments, the doctor took a step back with a snort. "Will Henry, do you have an aversion to looking presentable or is it a compulsion to doodle makeshift Rorschach’s upon my bathroom window?"

Will snatched his hand back guiltily from the steam-puffed glass where he had been idly doodling some creatures. "No, sir!”

Warthrop gave Will a look. Then he resumed his task, haranguing Will’s wayward locks into submission. Despite being treated to similar handling a few times before when they had to present themselves to his lawyer in regards to the pending adoption, it was still as irksome as ever. Both Will’s hair and the doctor’s unrelenting need for perfection always contended for supremacy over Will’s poor head.

Finally, with a harrumph, the doctor declared the battle won and allowed Will to hop off the toilet.

Turning back to his own clean-shaven visage in the oval mirror, Warthrop then tackled his own tempestuous hair. Dipping his fingers in the same brilliantine he wielded upon Will’s head, he tamed his inky strands. It lent his saturnine features a more self-possessed air of a brilliant scholar straight from some 20’s film noir rather than the cult look of a mad scientist.

It was a change that still shocked Will despite aiding and abetting in said change each and every time. Even after resuming his impromptu role as Warthrop’s barber, divesting him of his stubble and trimming his hair, to see any sort of effort put forth to the man’s appearance astounded Will. Not to mention the very same attentions then turned onto him with such startling alacrity, Will rather felt like the poor younger brother who happened to pass his older sibling’s room at the wrong time, only to be snatched up in a passing whimsy to test one’s skill at playing grown-ups. 

The doctor washed his hands and before Will could even get a glance at himself in the mirror, Warthrop crooked a finger into his starched collar and yanked him back into the master bedroom.

Will caught his breath, only to have Warthrop clamp a bowtie about his neck and deftly seal his airway shut with a snap of his wrists. Never before had cheery pale flowers had a penchant for strangulation. When the doctor turned away to affix his own midnight tie, Will wrangled his into allowing him to breathe. He didn’t think the hidebound lawyer with his gyre glasses would allow him to stay with the doctor if he passed out on the floor.

As with every meeting with Warthrop’s unsmiling lawyer, Will answered very one of the hawkish man’s neat interrogations, meekly keeping his gaze towards the carpet or on the clawed feet of his Brobdingnagian desk. During one of their longer sojourns in the bowels of his dark and confiding lair, Warthrop had later imparted upon Will the fact that his lawyer was every bit inherited as the creaky house in which they now inhabited. Will had the distinction that he too, felt a bit perturbed at the man’s piercing grey eyes that both assessed and condemned their very presence upon his Victorian-laden office.

“I always felt that if my father had a wish to haunt me after his death, his appointment of Mr Price is the evidence to that claim!”

After procuring several more of the doctor’s signatures and a handful of barely veiled grimaces, which Mr Price paid no attention, the man filed away the papers crisply and with a solemnness at home in a morgue. He plucked off his wire-frames and with a deft cleansing of his impeccable lenses, announced all proceedings were satisfactorily concluded.

Will popped out of his chair like a kid that fell asleep and missed the bell for class. He nearly tumbled to the floor over his shoes and flushed with embarrassment as Mr Price gave him a dubious glance out of the corner of his raptor eyes.

Stepping delicately around Will as he fixed himself up, the lawyer gave Warthrop a curt nod and pumped his hand once. Then with a few strides back to his desk, motioned tersely for them to leave.

Will collapsed like an old tumbly balloon in the dirty Daytona. Yet the bubbly feeling that this was the last meeting with the lawyer left him feeling content and at ease; everything now could go back to the way it was. As he sunk into the creaking seat, something in his stomach demanded attention but for Will, he was too tired to pay any attention to it. It was as if his brain tucked itself in for day, snug in its little niche inside his head.

Ever since arriving home to Harrington Lane, everything had been a dervish whirl of activity. Shocking enough, sprucing up the home back to order wasn’t one of them. After two months away the house was almost as Will left it, not at all when he first came to live there. It left Will completely baffled as one of his perpetual duties was keeping disorder at bay, much like trying to keep the tide and a particularly hell-bent toddler from smashing one’s sandcastle. But he had not the luxury of contemplating it as he was soon biffed to and fro with unending errands and tasks.

Officer Morgan came and went multiple times, helping Warthrop with every aspect of adopting Will that he could, including contacting his lawyer, apologizing for Mrs Beerstottle and lending him both ear and expertise. He even wanted to come with them to enroll Will into the nearby secondary school, Hunter’s Creek, much to Warthrop’s consternation. He nearly ended up booting the overly helpful constable from the premises, claiming that as a perfectly able adult with a PhD, he could very well register Will Henry into a lower educational system. Abashed, Morgan apologized, but Will still caught the man’s grumbles as he removed himself outside for a much-needed smoke.

Besides the doctor’s less-than-furtive complaining about Massachusetts’s state of public education, Will was entered into the school system with minimum fuss. Save for when it came to choosing Will’s classes. _That_ , the doctor snatched without so much as a please and flipped through the manual until he found what he wanted.

“Will Henry, it will do well for your educational foray into the study of aberrant biology to get customary knowledge in animal sciences,” stated Warthrop, jotting down the required course code onto Will’s pink registration sheet. He flipped through the Sciences section of the course guide and frowned. “Is there any other classes offered in relation to the biological processes? Why is there no anatomy or applied health?”

The guidance counselor pursed her lips and reviewed her own guide. “Those are offered for high schoolers since it is for a more appropriate age group. Besides Horticulture, that’s all that is offered until he moves into the 9th grade.” She looked up to find the doctor glaring at her.

“Horticulture is _not_ biology,” deadpanned Warthrop. He tossed the course guide on Will’s lap, jolting him in his seat. “You are required one more elective, Will Henry. Seeing as there are no more applicable classes, you may choose the last one.”

“Yes, sir.” A sneaking glance at Warthrop told Will he better not be tossing around the notion of taking a frivolous class. Knowing already what he wanted, Will flipped to the back and guiding his finger through the labels, found his class. His tummy gave a teeny wiggle as he penciled in Creative Writing along with its course code.

The doctor’s brow rose the merest tic at Will’s choice.

Will fiddled with his pencil and registration sheet. “I like writing, sir. I’m very good at it.”

“Dr Kearns had said something to that effect.”

“He did?” Will gaped at the doctor.

“Did I not just say that?”

Will looked back down. “Umm…I worked with him a little on some essays, but I didn’t know he thought that. I…I like to write for you too, sir. Your notes, I mean.”

Warthrop hummed. “Your work has proved to be satisfactorily. I have always upheld my belief in your future potential, Will Henry as you are a very capable and inquisitive child. It is my greatest expectation that you will put that to good use.”

Will’s pulse fluttered at the doctor’s words, at the rare acknowledgement that flowed as freely as a drunk in the Hippocrene. His hand clenched tightly about his pencil, and his paper wobbled slightly in the other.

However, that was soon dashed when Warthrop inquired about Will’s potential success with partaking of their honor curriculum.

“I have noted on your registration form that there is the option for honors courses in lieu of the standard curriculum in his core subjects. Though I have no compunction as to the state of those particular sort of classes, will a surfeit of exemplary grades bar Will Henry from attending a full course load of honors classes? On his final report card, all but his mathematical scores were a ‘satisfactory’. Math ‘exceeded expectations’. I have full expectation that Will Henry will enter into a scientific field upon entering university and that requires a solid foundation on which to expand upon.”

Will sank into his chair at the sudden intrusion of his less-than-stellar performance in 5th grade. As the doctor continued to express his concerns to the budgie-cheeked counselor, Will wondered just how much the doctor knew.

“I understand your concerns, Dr Warthrop. I can say that Will’s report card shows that he could handle an honors pathway if he works hard. If needed, he can stay after for help if he doesn’t understand it. We have tutoring afterschool for the lower grades every Tuesday and Thursday.”

Will could feel the doctor’s eyes flick over him as if Will earned those grades on purpose. But otherwise he felt relief that he hadn’t totally let himself or the doctor down in his schooling.

“However, our main concern is catching Will up. As he’s already missed more than a month of school without anything from another place, he’ll have to make it up. Otherwise he can start next week once all the paperwork runs through.”

Warthrop gave a curt nod. Then he asked for Will’s missed coursework and discussed a variety of forms and papers that passed hands with more rapidity than a New York stock exchange. A month’s worth of subject matter and topics were chucked onto his lap and Will’s mind had reeled at the thought of trying to tackle it all. Add to that the doctor’s assertion that he’d prepare Will so he may be ready for the upcoming week and Will was left in soul-sucking dread. His poor brain would be a withered prisoner, pounding on the confides of his skull after being fed Warthrop’s brand of tedious, self-imposed monologues day after day.

As the grown-ups started to confer upon other aspects of his education, Will had slumped in his chair, already preparing himself for a grueling start to his school year.

 

***

 

The grocery store was a lively affair for mid-afternoon, many mothers pushing their carts with their little ones trotting behind or occasionally asking for a treat. Wheels squeaked and toddled and the scanners beeped in discordance alongside the rough jostle of paper bags.

A bag of apples in hand, Will looked around for Dr Warthrop, who had left him standing in line without a word. Putting the bag onto the counter with a marker to separate their purchase from the chatty lady’s ahead of them, Will tamped down the feeling of unease that perhaps the man had left him alone to make the purchase himself. Not that he hadn’t done that before, making Will run into the grocery store on a quick errand to replenish basic foodstuffs like bread and cereal while he waited in the car, but Dr Warthrop had taken his wallet.

Trusting in the doctor’s uncanny ability to involve himself right when the eggs hit the frying pan, Will leaned over the buggy and started to gather their things and dump them on the counter. He was careful not to fall over into the cart as he tried to swipe at some yoghurt cups that had rolled to the very middle.

“Oh, aren’t you the most handsome gentleman?”

Will glanced behind him at the sanguine smile beaming down from the counter, framed with neatly trimmed facial hair and bold spectacles. Will mumbled a hello into his shoulder before hopping off the cart and laying down his last armful of yoghurt.

The cashier gave Will a small chuckle at his shy response. Seeing nothing but heavy items left, he rounded the bagging area and offered his burly strength to aid Will in tipping a gallon of milk and another of orange juice out of the buggy.

“There you go, son! Do you need any more help?”

Will, cheeks slightly red at the affable cashier’s behavior, shook his head. “Thank you, sir, but I just have to wait for Dr Warthrop. I have everything else up there.”

He nodded his head and returned to his post. Snapping up an onion, he gave it a jaunty toss and scanned it before rolling it to the bagger. “Well, that was very nice of you to help your father out while he ran to go get something. He must be very proud to have a smart little guy like yourself!”

Will didn’t know how to respond to that. On some days, he could have been an elaborately stacked pile of rocks for all the doctor noticed him. Nor did he know how to contradict the claim that Warthrop was his father. Mr Price had said for all manners and purposes, he now legally was, but beyond that, there was no more mention of it. It didn’t sit well with Will, because the mere mention made it feel as though he was abandoning his own father for substitute. 

So Will mumbled a small thanks and toyed with his hands.

The doctor returned as the cashier was charging the last few items to their bill, including a package of photos Warthrop had placed on the belt.

“Will that be all?”

“A book of stamps.”

The cashier opened the cash drawer and handed over the stamp booklet and Warthrop tucked it into his wallet.

“Your total is 56.50,” replied the cashier cheerily, waggling his brows. “Will that be check or card?”

Warthrop pursed his lips as he looked over the total. He plucked out his ID and credit card, handing them over warily as if he fully expected the man to pull a devastating magic trick.  

“Um, seems to be all in order, Dr Warthrop!” The cashier gave the credit card a swipe through the reader before handing both over. He gave Warthrop a tremendous bearish grin. “I was just telling your son here what a good helper he is. I’d be lucky to have a son like him!” He pushed a broad hand through his ginger hair, as the cheap plastic register wheezed like a dying thing and spit out Warthrop’s receipt.

“I am not Will Henry’s father. You are very much mistaken if you think we look even remotely related.”

The cashier gave both of them an incredulous look, one Will had secretly dubbed the Warthropian Response. It was uncanny how everyone seemed to have that peculiar expression in reserve for a one Dr Pellinore Warthrop at some point or another.

“Gene’s don’t always work that way, doctor. But excuse me if I’m mistaken. So what are you, his uncle?”

“Didn’t I tell you we are not related?”

“If I were you, I’d bless my stars to have guardianship to such a kind boy,” retorted the cashier, who gave Warthrop a withering stare, both meat-packer’s hands chained atop his hips. “But I’m guessing it’s not the case with you?”

Warthrop glared back. “You would guess wrong.” He gestured vaguely with his wallet.

The cashier raised a brow and canted his hips, demanding he continue.

“I am…as you put it…this boy’s guardian. Yes.” Warthrop shoved his wallet into his back pocket and straightening out his jacket. “Not that it was any of your business,” he added, with a disdainful flick of his wrists.

The cashier slid his eyes to Will and gave a little shrug as if to say, _Good luck, kiddo—you’ll need it._ Then he tore off the receipt and handed it over to Warthrop, who bundled it in another pocket and herded Will out the aisle to attend to their things. Will could hear the cashier’s exasperated huff as Warthrop made Will push the buggy himself, his long strides leaving the boy behind as he exited the store.

The doctor was already at the Daytona when Will twisted the buggy to a halt, its hatchback thrown wide open while he half-leaned on the side, chin in hand. Will left him to his thoughts as he loaded the trunk, doing his best to fit the bags among the various tools, rags and dry leaves littering the carpet. When he was done, Will wheeled the empty cart to the stand.

“Sir?”

Warthrop fell out of his head. He rubbed his eyes with his fingertips and fixed them upon Will. “What is it, Will Henry?”

“Could you close the trunk for me?”

Warthrop looked at Will for a moment before walking over and tossing down the hatch. Will went to open the passenger door but saw that Warthrop hadn’t moved. Instead he had merely turned so he was looking out towards the expanse of road again, leading away from the supermarket and its restaurants.

Will looked to see what the man was looking at, but besides the treetops torn apart by a vanishing sky and a piercing church steeple glinting in the waning afternoon, there was nothing. Nothing save the delicate smattering of deckled gold.

Warthrop pulled free, lashes shielding his eyes. His fingers trailed, dusty tendrils upon once-pristine white.

“There is one more thing left, Will Henry. One thing I have neglected for quite some time.” His fingers curled in on themselves. His eyes fell to Will, exacting and firm in his resolve. “Then we can go home.”   

 

***

 

Light clattered like broken pearls as Warthrop turned off the main road, trees wavering gently in the silken dusk.

Will’s heart lurched, thrashing wildly against his teeth and the constricting remains of his throat.

 _He knew this place_.

The weeping willows that languished over the iron-wrought fences, beaten into a tar finish. The neighborhood church, with its brass-knuckled door and long-time parishioners resting beneath its blanket of grass and flowers. A child, unfamiliar and rosy-cheeked, scampered hope from the impending night.

Houses…all of them with warmly lit windows beneath the dimming firmament. Toys adorned one lawn. Another, a father returned home with his daughter swinging from his hands in enraptured joy.

Will tore his eyes away. Grey road dwindled further, twisting and turning.

The tree-line broke apart, the bare-bones shimmering beneath the golden sky. And then—nothing.

_Nothing._

The handsome two-story house in robin’s egg blue and cream. The shady grove of apple trees that he liked to spend his afternoon plucking free of fruit. His father’s station wagon that his mother loved because it allowed her to take Will to the beach and bring home plants for her garden.

Gone.

As if in a trance, Will stepped out of the car, not even sure when it had stopped. The shriveled remains of leaves dissolved beneath unsteady feet. A few birds tittered in distress, taking to the trees. Will stumbled across the pavement, unable to contain the strangulation of emotions erupting in his throat.

All around him, everything continued on. The neighbors’ homes twinkled merrily as the daylight ebbed away. A car slowed around the bend, taking care to maneuver past the Daytona.  A peal of laughter cracked through the air like gunfire and Will jumped, hands shaking.

His feet sought purchase on the sweet clover that choked the verge, nearly tripping over clumps of willow-weed. A lone dogwood was the only thing left at the curb, the mailbox no longer there with its wisteria cloak. Will clutched one of its branches, thin and frail in his hand.

A fire had consumed everything that Will had. That night, when all he had wanted to do was see his father, it had cost him everything. His belongings, his home. His family.

The twisted bits of decaying grass carpeted the lot like bones in a crematory. Bursting through the deadened ochre, a few pine saplings struggled to grow in the earth. There was nothing to expunge its growth—no rubble, no blackened stumps of his mother’s apple trees, no concrete driveway or foundation to remind anyone that someone had once called this place home.

Nothing.

Nothing, save a single lone dogwood on the edge of weed-choked curb.

Will didn’t turn around. But he knew—knew as surely as the barren expanse before him—that the doctor was there.

“Sir, where is everything?”

Shoes scraped against the pavement as the doctor shifted on his feet. Brushstrokes of sound. The soft rustle of his suit. The whisper of grass. Will’s breath as it ghosted across his face in the winter chill.

But Pellinore did not answer.

Will spun around and found the doctor looking down at him with inscrutable eyes. Heat flooded Will’s face and his throat found itself in a vise-grip that had him swallowing harshly.

“Why did you bring me here?”

“I think it is apparent, Will Henry,” Pellinore said quietly.

“But there is nothing here! Why?” he yelled, balling up his fists. “My home—why is it gone?”

His voice, tinny and sharp, rent apart in puffs of churning breath. A streetlamp flickered to life, a small pool of light against the gloaming filtering from the trees.

Will’s hands fell to side. “Sir…why?”

“Because the wreckage is something that you should not bear, Will Henry.”

Will stumbled back. Tears bit at his eyes and blinding him to the man before him.

All at once, the thing he had been holding onto with a child’s desperation crashed amongst the reeds, unspooling, unwinding until Will could feel himself burst.

He darted into the choking infection and desperation swarmed around him in strings of icy breath. Clutching weeds scraped and clung onto the boy in an attempt to hold him back. But Will could not stop. He ran through the waist-high weeds and burrs, tears ruining the landscape before him. It suddenly stopped, a soundless rampart before the quietly bleeding forest.

Whimpering, Will collapsed to his knees.

It could have been here…here at his feet that his kitchen once stood, here where the parched earth strained with unchecked growth and twisted root. The place where his mother baked pies and they sat together for dinner as a family.

Or it could’ve been the living room, where they had almost every Christmas together, with his father always bestowing the honor of lighting the candles and topping the tree to him. Or it could have been another expanse of yard, where he had played hours of baseball with his father admiring his pitches or his mother hiding her laughter when he accidentally bonked his father on the head.

It could have been. But Will couldn’t tell anymore.

Will sobbed loudly into his knees, clutching his legs tight with tainted fingers. Everything around him fell to nothingness.  If he wanted, perhaps he could disappear as well, swallowed by the nothingness around him.

Will sobbed, crying until every ounce of him was scattered upon his hands and soaked into his clothing. His throat hurt and everything around him felt cold and dead. The skeletal remains of the grass churned and rattled like disjointed prayers.

Will began shivering terribly. He sniffed, his nose running even after he had wiped it on his jeans. Slowly, Will unfurled himself upon the grass, but stiffened as he felt something at his back.

The doctor bent down and offered Will his hand. The doctor’s stoic face betrayed no emotion, even after Will took his hand, fresh tears upon his cheek. No regret or understanding. No sympathy or ire. Just a steady grasp as he pulled Will back to his feet and away from the edge.

They passed through the field side-by-side, the younger of the two with the occasional sniffle. Neither looked back, uneven steps trekking over the lost terrain until they reached the dogwood. 

Pellinore stopped. His hand tightened for the briefest of moments. Then he let go.

“I am not your father, Will Henry.” His voice was firm. “Nor will I ever be. I hold no illusions to myself, Will Henry. I understand perfectly well who I am, and the extent of my own capabilities.”

The boy looked up to the man and found his gaze fixed on the tremulous sky above, shrouded in roiling greys.

Will nodded. “I know, sir.” His voice has soft, scattered to the chilled air. “Because you are the monstrumologist.”

 

***

 

Snow flitted in and out of the pitch like falling ashes. November had dwindled into early nights and frosted landscapes, of chipped fragments of sunlight and warmth. The newly arrived cold soon became as welcome as summer insects, skittering along the floorboards and tucking away in corners, unable to be chased away with the efforts of a well-placed broom. Nonetheless, the house upon Harrington Lane remained warm enough that all either of its two inhabitants ever needed to keep warm were a trusty pair of socks and a well-worn sweater. 

Will looked up from his mound of textbooks and three-ring binder to check the time on the microwave. His stomach, having looked inside itself and finding it empty, was on the verge of starting a tantrum.

Scratching the back of his head, Will jabbed a couple more lines to his book questions on Ancient Egypt so he wouldn’t forget anything. Then with a yawn, he slipped out of his chair.

Will’s stomach rumbled as he gathered a cutting board and several varieties of half-used vegetables from the fridge. He set the massive stock pot on the stove and sliced a dollop of butter into it. Cutting the turnips, carrots and onion into chunks, Will then tossed them in and lit the pot before chopping up a rasher of bacon. Soon the room was filled with the hot aroma of frying bacon and cooking vegetables before Will began pouring cups of water to fill it halfway.

He was nearly finished when Warthrop emerged from his basement, hair askew and shirt buttoned incorrectly. Scratching his shoulder, Warthrop came up behind Will and eyed the soup.

“What is that, Will Henry?”

“It’s soup.”

Warthrop gave it a critical eyeball, as if Will presented him with pot full of yard waste. “How’d you get it like that?”

“I cooked the vegetables first in butter and bacon.” Will pointed his spoon to some of the floating pieces of meat.

Warthrop frowned. “How is that any different than what I made before? That is still merely vegetables floating around in water. But with bacon.”

“Well, I’m going to add stock. And cream. Then it’ll be soup.”

“Stock?”

“Yes, sir,” said Will, plopping two bouillon cubes into the roiling pot and stirring the bobbing vegetables. “Mother would sometimes make her own with chicken, but I don’t know how to do that. This is faster though, and I think it tastes good.”

Warthrop grunted, leaning over Will and watching the churning soup skeptically. For a man who subsisted on nothing but berry-flavored breakfast items and tea, Warthrop eyed the pot like a kid whose mother is about to sic them with some recipe they found in a magazine.

Will maneuvered himself around the doctor to splash some cream and toss in some flour into the soup before leaving it to simmer.

Then Will returned to his seat, pulling his book close to read the next question. The doctor remained where he was, either glancing at Will or at the soup. Will sneaked a quick look at the clock then flipped through his book, looking for the paragraph pertaining to his question. He read it. Then he looked at the pictures. Then he went back to make sure he read the question correctly.

Still the doctor did nothing.

Will took up his pencil. Tapped it a bit on his book. Sharpened it with his little handheld sharpener. Then right when he was about to write out the answer, the doctor plopped himself in the seat opposite of Will, his socked feet sliding along the floorboards under the table.

“Will Henry, put on the kettle. I desire tea. Milk will not do on a night as cold as this.”

Laying down his pencil, Will Henry clenched his eyes shut and let out a controlled breath. _A full five minutes!_ It had to be a record. Will had the distinct feeling the doctor did this on purpose. Why he did it was another matter that Will still couldn’t figure out, like trying to understand how the sun worked while looking directly at it. But he did as the doctor bade, laying out two separate cups and plonking on the kettle.

As he prepared the tea, the doctor busied himself with Will’s schoolwork, tossing his math journal to the floor with an unceremonious plop and nosing through his thoughts on their current chapter of _Where the Red Fern Grows_. When Will returned, two steaming cups in hand, the doctor got out of his chair and left.

Placing them on the table, Will bent over to pick up his mathbook and stash it away before it could receive another disdainful toss. Warthrop detested math, dubbing it a ‘superfluous mental exercise’ when it had no bearing upon his finances or his work. Not that Will didn’t harbor similar sentiments, but he wished he didn’t always have to rescue it every time the doctor banished it to the floor.

Loud thumps echoed down the hallway that sounded suspiciously like Warthrop was hurling stuff onto the floor. Will sighed and rubbed his eyes, because he knew he’d be the one cleaning it up tomorrow.

Harried footfalls burst into the room and Warthrop skidded to a halt by Will’s chair. He thunked a book on top of Will’s notes, tearing into the dusty tome and flipping the pages to what he was looking for.

“Will Henry! Here! I saw that you were studying common diseases of _Canis familiaris_ and I have none other than the combined progresses of the American Heartworm Society on staying the spread of _Dirofilaria immitis_! This will provide all you need on your report and not only that, it is the foremost source for primary documentation.”

Will blinked. “Diro…what?”

“ _Dirofilaria immitis_. Or commonly referred to as heartworms.” The doctor looked at Will expectantly. “I saw that you received an assignment pertaining to canine ailments today and since you haven’t decided on a suitable topic of disease as of yet, you can pick this.”

The assignment was one handed to them at the end of class and since Will had to run across the campus to make it to his World History class, he hadn’t looked at it. They had moved on from studying small household pets (most of which he spent all his waking hours at home catching up on) to large ones, starting with dogs.

Warthrop made a muffled exclamation, snapping his fingers. He bounded down the basement stairs, emerging a few minutes later with a large and dusty mason jar. A ghostly white lump with a profusion of threadlike worms bobbed in the yellowish liquid as he held it out to Will. As Will held it up to peer inside, Warthrop poked at the jar.

“See how thin they are, Will Henry? Like our roundworms, it is their sheer numbers in propagation that ultimately kill its victim. They end up clogging the ventricles and arteries until the heart can no longer pump efficiently or the blood cannot pass enough nutrients and oxygen throughout the body. Although there has been a movement to label more as a lung disease...” The doctor straightened up, tapping his chin in thought.

Will turned the pale heart around in his hands, its numerous worms swaying in the liquid. “Where’d you get this, sir?”

Warthrop walked over to the book, flipping the pages. “Umm, to be quite honest, Will Henry, I was surprised it still existed.” He traced a passage, lips silently relaying the information to himself. Then he straightened back up, hands tucked behind his back. “But in regards to your question, I obtained that specific specimen myself before I moved overseas to attend boarding school. It was donated by a friend of my father’s and I preserved it.” He shrugged.

“However, back to the data at hand, it would seem that it is more of the researcher’s preference for whether or not heartworms are more a heart or lung disease as is stated here. They mainly reside within the arterial vessels which allows them to travel to either or. But it is my opinion…” The doctor continued on, his voice turning into a dull hum in the back of Will’s mind as his stomach reminded him of more important matters.

Tucking the jar into the crook of his arm, Will went to stir his soup, delighted that it looked somewhat familiar to what his mother had made many times before. But his stomach happily chimed in that as long as it tasted as good as it smelled, he’d be full in no time.

Will put the jar on the dinner table and began stacking his books into a neat pile. Warthrop made no such move with his own tome, thoroughly engrossed with the several diagrams depicting the inner workings of the heart and its cross-sections. Will moved his chair next to the doctor’s where there was enough space there for them to eat comfortably.

Will ladled two bowls of hot soup, switched off the stove and brought them one at a time to the table. He set down a folded napkin at each place setting and neatly placed a spoon on top.

As Will settled himself on the seat and blew on his first spoonful, the doctor snapped up from his book. His brow furrowed, eyes on Will then back to his reading. Then back to Will, spoon still suspended.

Warthrop rounded the table and much to Will’s surprise, flopped in next to him, jostling him aside. Much to Will’s dismay, he dropped his spoon into his soup. But as he fished it out of the broth and cleaned it with his napkin, he watched Warthrop take a sip of his tea.

Normally the man wasn’t hungry, despite lack of proper nourishment and sleep. Will often hesitated in calling the doctor for meals as it either garnered a curt dismissal on his lack of appetite or snapping ire that he dare intercede on his work for so trivial a matter.

Will quickly popped a bite in. He shoveled in a few more for good measure in case the doctor decided he’d rather take his standard course of action.

Warthrop placed his tea cup on top of Will’s homework. He snagged his spoon, gave it a dubious look-over and then applied the same tactic to Will’s meal.

“So…this is your soup.”

He eyed as if it was about to jump at him. He prodded one of the turnips. Then he bent over so fast that Will thought he was going to dunk his face into the bowl, but he merely wanted to sniff it. He sat back up again, scooped some up and ate it.

Though Will knew the doctor wasn’t a man inclined to eating much anyways, he felt as if he was in the middle of some test. _He_ liked it well enough, but his stomach waited anxiously for Warthrop’s opinion.

Warthrop hummed, took another spoonful and leaned back against the chair. “It’s a fine soup, Will Henry.” He took a swig of his tea, holding it against his lips before taking another. “It tastes familiar somehow.”

A tremendous flooding of pride and some other inexplicable emotion welled up within Will and his eyes dropped down to his lap. He could feel his mouth do a funny little wiggle. “It was one of my father’s favorite things to eat. I always liked helping to make it with my mother when he came home. That and apple pie and pancakes. And a little bit of other things if I can remember how.”

“I see.” Warthrop cradled his mug in his hands, elbows upon the table. It was dark beyond the veil of light that led out the kitchen, and a lone patch of moonlight filtered through the vestibule door.

Will ate, finishing his meal while the doctor nursed his, taking a few bites here and there. Will took his empty bowl and finding its half-finished twin in its place, took them both to the sink.

 “He is your inheritance, Will Henry.”

“Sir?”

“And he was my assistant.” Warthrop set down his cup and folded his arms upon the table. He remained looking beyond the veil, the tone of his voice carrying something past the simple words.

Will returned to his seat, his short legs dangling from the floor and the doctor’s folded alongside. Will put his hands on his knees and waited for the doctor to continue.

“It is always the child that inherits the burden of their parents’ legacy, Will Henry. Surely as the world keeps spinning to that ancient rhythm that has plagued us for time eternal, that is both yours to receive and to give.” Warthrop reached across the table, tugging his father’s book towards himself. Will scooted closer, knee knocking against Warthrop’s.

He slid it so Will could read it as well, fingers pointing to the image, cross-sections labeled in a neat and cursive hand. Thin and tentative script encapsuled the information it imparted. “We can start with learning all the different parts of the organ, Will Henry so you may better understand the many things that prey upon it and call it home.” He pointed to the jar. “Ventricles, atrium and there’s the pericardium—see that little bit of film there? It’s what protects the heart. Broken in this case, but still intact. That is not an easy thing to achieve when one is so young.”

Will detected a hint of deeply-rooted pride at the man’s words.

“How about it, Will Henry? Can you remember?”

The jar burned amber, its lingering halo winking against the aged book as Pellinore maneuvered it between them, his fingers brushed with delicate traces of gold. His hand retreated.

And Will’s took its place.

The doctor spoke, the timbre of his voice guiding Will’s hand across the amber glass. Will followed, and the doctor finished his narration.

Will’s hand fell away and he raised his head.

Warthrop gave the barest of nods. He rustled Will’s hair then took to his feet. He turned away towards the garage and stretched, hands upon the small of his back.

He glanced over his shoulder at the little boy at his table, the barest trace of lines upon the corners of his eyes. “Doctor Kearns was astute in his words, Will Henry—an assistant-apprentice, indeed!”

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for taking this journey with me! This has been the first novel I have ever finished, even if it is a fanfiction of the one book that has impacted me so much through the years. It started out merely as a series of headcanons and drabbles that wondered if a happy ending could exist for these characters if they lived in a more modern era and before I knew it, it grew and expanded into a world of its own.  
> I have read and reread the original works to ensure the characters were kept as canonical as possible even in situations that they could have never encountered in the original canon. In writing this, I am still attempting to learn my own unique writing style and voice and through the summer, this story will be going through a massive editing run, so if you enjoyed it, please feel free to come back once it has been polished!  
> But for now, I hope you enjoyed it, and be on the lookout for Part II which will have us delving more into the life of the enigmatic Kearns and stumbling alongside the newly adopted Will Henry and his guardian. If you read the original draft of that one, the story will be similar, but exceedingly different so I am excited for the new tale as much as you all!  
> Thank you!


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